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PLAYS  OF 
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THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

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THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA.  Ltd. 

TOEONTO 


:^E[yii]cotrrEPir)  raiRanHPiGuiscn 


PLAYS  OF 
EDMOND  ROSTAND 

TRANSLATED  BY 

HENDERSON  DAINGERFIELD  NORMAN 

ILLUSTRATED  BY  IVAN  GLIDDEN 
VOLUME  ONE 


NEW  YORK 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1921 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1921, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Setup  and  clectrotyped.      Published  October,  1921 
Dramatic  and  all  other  rights  reserved 


rniNTI  I>    IN    THE    LNITEU   STATES   Or   AMERIOA. 


— u. 


V,  1 


Translator  s  Dedication. 
to 


FOREWORD 


For  twenty-five  years,  till  in  December,  1918,  he  himself  en- 
tered into  light  perpetual,  Edmond  Rostand  was  the  poet  of  light, 
from  the  April  starlight  of  Romantics  to  the  full  summer  sun- 
shine of  Chanticleer.  Because  his  genius  is  true  to  the  genius 
of  his  people,  and  because  the  French  language  is  a  most  lucid 
medium,  his  plays  have  suffered  little  from  misinterpretation. 
Chanticleer  is  the  one  exception.  Readers  and  spectators  have 
been  so  dazzled  by  its  rays,  they  have  been,  for  the  most  part, 
unable  to  see  the  sun. 

If  Kipling  had  written  a  play  called  The  Lion,  and  its  scene 
were  laid  in  his  own  home  county  of  England,  people  would,  I 
think,  have  inferred  a  patriotic  meaning.  Yet  when  Rostand, 
having  written  Cyrano  of  Bergerac  and  The  Eaglet,  completed  the 
triology  with  Chanticleer,  the  critics,  heedless  of  the  fact  that  the 
Cock  is  the  emblem  of  France,  acclaimed  it  as  a  society  satire, 
and  disregarded  its  larger  significance  as  a  patriotic  parable. 

The  reader's  enjoyment  of  the  play  will  be  enhanced  by  careful 
observation  of  the  lines  that  introduce  the  leading  characters.  Our 
attention  is  directed  to  The  Old  Hen  in  the  Basket  as  that  ancient 
France  that  is  the  mother  of  France,  the  wise  old  mother  whose 
one  concern  is  the  growth  of  her  splendid  Cock : 

"A  Gascon  Hen,  Pau  is  her  native  place." 

Patou  is  Peasant  France, 

"Guardian  of  homestead,  garden  and  of  farm," 

vii 


viii  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

the  peasant  who  loves  the  soil  and  the  sunshine  of  home,  and  who 
is  first  to  scent  danger  to  the  farmyard;  the  French  peasant, 

"Son  of  all  the  races, 
Artois,  Saintonge" ;  his  soul 

"the  dreaming  circle  of  the  pack." 

The  Pheasant  Hen's  own  lines  declare  her  a  child  of  all  ages 
and  all  countries,  the  recurrent  feminist  and  the  eternal  feminine, 
yet  after  all  a  feminist  distinctly  French,  who 

"makes  a  toilet  of  a  uniform." 

The  Blackbird's  cynical  sketch,  which  introduces  Chanticleer 
on  his  first  appearance,  as  plainly  as  the  Pigeon's  praise  shows 
him,  made  up  of  all  her  provinces,  the  very  Cock  of  France. 
From  Chanticleer's  own  beak  we  have  his  command  to  the  Magpie 
at  the  Guinea's  Tea: 

"Announce, — without  addition,  please, — the  Cock." 
And  when  the  foreign  cock  asks  ironically: 

"The  Gallic  Cock?" 

Chanticleer  answers: 

"None  needs  to  use  that  name 
If  native-born  and  certain  of  his  claim; 
But  that  good  name  you  take  upon  your  beak, 
When  one  says  just  'The  Cock,' — of  him  you  speak." 

Nevertheless,  like  so  much  great  poetry,  its  application  is  at 
once  local  and  universal, — a  light  set  in  the  home  window,  but 
shining  far.  Blackbird,  Guinea  Hen,  Peacock  and  Night  Birds  of 
the  Play,  all  have  a  definite  relation  to  Chanticleer's  own  poultry 
yard,  yet  they  and  their  kin  make  trouble  in  every  flock.  Chan- 
ticleer is  always  Cock  of  France,  but  for  us  all  he  Is  the  Cock  of 
Dawn.  And  wherever  his  cry  pierces  the  blackness,  the  Night 
Birds  believe  and  tremble,  and  seek  his  life  to  take  it  away. 

For,  mind  you,  the  Secret  of  Chanticleer  is  very  truth.  It  is 
work  and  faith  in  one's  work  that  makes  the  world  go  round.  It 
is  loving  the  light  and  calling  for  it  that  brings  the  Light  at  last. 


FOREWORD  ix 

As  to  the  translator's  share,  in  all  the  Plays,  but  especially  in 
Chanticleer,  there  is  only  this  to  say,  in  words  found  in  a  certain 
old  edition  of  Ossian: 

"Uncertain, — in  an  alien   speech, — 

While  wandering  here,  some  child  of  cliance 

Through  pangs  of  keen  delight  may  reach 
The  power  of  utterance." 

Henderson  Daingerfield  Norman. 


CONTENTS 

Romantics  (1894) 1 

The  Princess  Far  Away  (1895) 59 

The  Woman  OF  Samaria  (1897) 141 

Cyrano  of  Bergerac  (1897) 207 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 
See,   I  Am  Coiffed  in  Fairer,   Fitter  Guise!      .      .   Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

Sir  Percinet,   How  Beautiful  and  Wise! 28 

The  Dream  Is  the  Soul's  One  Star 66 

And  Yet  I  Think  It  True 146 

So  Be  It!     Climb! 214 


ROMANTICS 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 
In  Verse 


TO 
ROSEMONDE 


ROMANTICS 


LIST    OF    CHARACTERS 

Sylvette. 

Percinet. 

Straforel. 

Bergamin,  father  of  Percinet. 

Pasquinot,  father  of  Sylvette. 

Blaise,  the  gardener. 

A  Wall,  a  mute  personage. 

Bravoes,    Musicians,    Moors,    Torch-Bearers,    a    Notary, 

Four  Neighbors,  etc. 
The  action  may  take  place  anywhere,  provided  the  costumes  are 

pretty. 


ACT  I 

The  scene  is  cut  in  tivo  by  an  old,  moss-grown  wall,  engar- 
landed  with  a  riot  of  climbing  vines.  Right,  a  corner  of  Ber- 
GAMIn's  park.  Left,  a  corner  of  Pasquinot's  park.  On  each  side 
a  bench  against  the  wall. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  Percinet  is  sitting  on  top  of  the 
wall,  with  a  book  on  his  knees,  from  which  he  is  reading  aloud 
to  Sylvette,  who  is  standing  up  on  the  bench  on  her  side  of  the 
wall.  She  is  resting  her  elbows  on  the  zvall  and  listening  enrapt 
while  Percinet  reads. 

SCENE  I 

Sylvette,  Percinet 

Sylvette:    Sir  Percinet,  how  beautiful  and  wise! 
Percinet:   Is  it  not?    Hear  what  Romeo  replies: 

"It  is  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn, 

No  nightingale.     Look,  love,  what  envious  streaks 

Do  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  east. 

Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 

Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops. 

I  must  be  gone." 
Sylvette  {hurriedly,  listening)  :   'Sh!  .  .  . 
Percinet  :  No  one.    Your  heart  stops, 

Then  starts,  is  like  a  fluttering  bird, 

Ready  to  fly  with  the  first  breeze  that  stirred. 

Hear  the  Immortal  Lovers,  Juliet's  cry: 

"Yond  light  is  not  daylight,  I  know  it,  I: 

It  is  some  meteor  that  the  sun  exhales, 

To  be  to  thee  this  night  a  torch-bearer, 

3 


4  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

And  light  thee  on  thy  way  to  Mantua. 

Therefore,  stay  yet,  thou  need'st  not  to  be  gone. 

Romeo:  Let  me  be  ta'en  ...  be  put  to  death. 

I  am  content,  so  thou  wilt  have  it  so. 

I'll  say  yond  gray  is  not  the  morning's  eye, 

'Tis  but  the  pale  reflex  of  Cynthia's  brow. 

Nor  that  is  not  the  lark,  whose  notes  do  beat 

The  vaulty  heaven,  high  above  our  heads. 

I  have  more  care  to  stay,  than  will  to  go. 

Come,  Death,  and  welcome." 
Sylvette:  If  Lord  Romeo 

Say  that,  'twill  make  me  cry. 
Percinet:  Too  mighty  book, 

I  cannot  bear  so  dolorous  a  look! 

So,  till  to-morrow,  I  will  close  its  cover, 

And  make  of  Romeo  a  living  lover. 

(He  shuts  the  book  and  looks  about  him.) 

Adorable,  this  place,  and  made  to  fill 

The  part  of  Setting  for  the  Immortal  Will. 
Sylvette:   The  play  is  beautiful,  and  how  divine 

The  wind's  accompaniment  that  sways  this  vine; 

And  the  scene  suits  it, — all  these  shadows  green, 

Sir  Percinet,     .     .     .     the  poem  and  the  scene 

Are  lovely,     .     .     .     but  less  beautiful  indeed 

Than  is  your  voice,  half  singing  while  jou  read. 
Percinet:   O  naughty  flatterer! 
Sylvette:  Unhappy  lovers! 

How  terrible  their  fate,  when  one  discovers! 

{With  a  sigh.)     Ah  me,  I  think.    .    .    . 
Percinet:  What? 

Sylvette   (hastily):  Nothing! 

Percinet:  What  you  think 

Has  made  you,  on  a  sudden,  very  pink. 
Sylvette  (repeating  earnestly)  :    Nothing! 
Percinet  (shaking  his  finger  at  her):    Sweet  liar! 

Yet  your  clear  eyes  say 


ROMANTICS  5 

That  which  you  think.     I  know! 

{Lowering  his  voice.)  Our  parents,  eh? 

Sylvette:    Maybe. 
Percinet:    Your  father  and  my  own;  the  hate 

That  sunders  them! 
Sylvette:  Yes!    Oh,  mysterious  fate! 

Often  I  weep  beneath  my  father's  rule. 

Last  month,  returning  from  my  convent  school, 

My  father  led  me  to  this  grassy  space, 

And  said:    "My  child,  behold  tlic  dwelling  place 

Of  Bergamin,  mine  ancient  enemy. 

Father  and  son  thine  eyes  must  never  see. 

Promise  me  well, — or  lose  a  daughter's  place, — 

Thou,  too,  wilt  be  the  foe  of  all  his  race. 

Twixt  mine  and  his  there  can  be  no  accord." 

I  promised.     .     .     .     See  how  well  I  keep  my  word ! 
Percinet:    Have  I  not  sworn  by  all  high  heaven  above  you 

That  I  will  hate  you  always?    And  I  love  you. 
Sylvette:   O  holy  Virgin! 
Percinet:  Love  thee. 

Sylvette:  It  is  sin! 

Percinet:   Oh,  very  great!     But  if  a  man  begin 

By  being  warned, — it  makes  him  seek  that  wife. 

Kiss  me,  Sylvette. 
Sylvette:  But,  never  in  my  life! 

{She  jumps  down  from  the  bench  and  goes  a  little  distance 
away.) 
Percinet:    Nevertheless,  you  love  me. 
Sylvette:  You  think  so? 

Percinet:  Little  one, 

I  tell  the  truth  your  heart  would  shyly  shun. 

Let's  doubt  no  longer  what  our  hearts  both  know. 

I  say   .    .    .   just  what  you  said  a  while  ago, — 

Yes,  you  yourself,  Sylvette,  comparing  thus 

The  Lovers  of  Verona  to  ...  to  ...  us. 
Sylvette:    I  didn't,  either! 


6  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Percinet:  Yes,  you  did,  Sylvette. 

Thy  father  seemed  like  that  of  Juliet, 

Mine  was  like  Romeo's ; — a  fate  as  sad, 

Parents  as  cruel, — and  a  love  as  mad! 

And  I  will  brave  them  both  for  love  of  you, 

Pasquintot-Capulet,  Pa-Montague. 
Sylvette  (comiitg  a  little  closer  to  the  wall) : 

Then  we're  in  love!     How  quickly  it  came  on. 

Sir  Percinet,  how  could  it? 
Percinet:  Love  is  born. 

One  knows  not  how  or  why,  when  first  it  flutters. 

I  saw  you  pass, — peeped  through  my  window  shutters. 
Sylvette  :  And  I  saw  you.  .   .   . 

Percinet:  Our  shy  eyes  seemed  to  call. 

Sylvette  :  One  day,  I  gathered  nuts  hard  by  the  wall. 

By  chance,  .    .    . 
Percinet:  By  chance  I  read  Will  Shakespeare  here. 

Ah,  see  how  Destiny  aids  souls  mates,  dear! 
Sylvette:    A  bold  breeze  flung  my  fillet  at  your  feet. 
Percinet:   To  give  it  thee,  I  climbed  this  bench,  my  sweet. 
Sylvette  {climbmg)  :    And  I  climbed  this  one. 
Percinet:  Every  day  since  then 

Darling,  I  wait  thee  here,  most  blest  of  men. 

With  throbbing  heart,  I  hear  thy  laughter  call, — 

Bird  twittering  in  its  nest, — below  the  wall. 

Light  laughter  rising,  till  thy  bright  hair  shines 

A  glint  of  glory  in  the  verdant  vines. 
Sylvette:    Since  we  are  in  love,  we  ought  to  plight  our  troth. 
Percinet:   You  read  my  very  thought,  upon  my  oath! 
Sylvette:    Last  of  the  Bergamins, — how  melancholy! — 

The  last  Pasquinot  plights  thee. 
Percinet:  Noble  folly! 

Sylvette:    They'll  talk  of  us  when  future  ages  gather. 
Percinet:   Each  tender  lover  and  each  cruel  father. 
Sylvette:    But,  dear,  who  knows, — perhaps  God  wills  it  so, — 

Healing  of  hatred  from  our  love  may  flow. 


ROMANTICS  1 

Percinet:   I'm  not  so  sure. 

Sylvette:  Me,  I  have  faith  in  Fate. 

I  know  at  least  five  ways  to  do  it.     Wait! 

Six  splendid  ways. 
Percinet;  Truly?    Oh,  what? 

Sylvette  :  Suppose, — 

In  romances  one  reads  such  things  as  those, — 

The  Heir  Apparent  with  his  Court  might  move, — 

Might  pass  our  house.      I'd   tell   our   hapless   love, 

And  of  our  fathers'  hatred, — the  whole  thing; 

— Don  Roderick  and  Chimene  and  the  King, — 

The  Prince  would  call  our  fathers.     His  command 

Would  make  them  friends  and   .    .    . 
Percinet:  Give  me  thy  dear  hand ! 

Sylvette:  Or  it  might  happen  like  another  tale: 

Thou  wouldst  fall  ill.    All  mortal  aid  would  fail. 
Percinet:    Madly  my  father'd  cry,  "What  wouldst  thou,  boy?" 
Sylvette:   Thou  wouldst  say,  "Sylvette!" 
Percinet:  His  heart  would  melt,  with  joy; 

And  I'd  recover  .    .    .  thee! 
Sylvette:  Or  this  romance, — 

An  old  Duke  sees  my  portrait  by  some  chance. 

He  loves  me, — sends  his  squire  to  tell  me  so, 

And  begs  to  make  me  duchess.  .  .  . 
Percinet:  You  say.  No! 

Sylvette:    He  foams  with  rage.    One  evening  after  dark, 

I  dream  of  thee,  all  lonely,  in  the  park; 

I  am  seized, — I  shriek.   .    .    . 
Percinet:  I  hear  .    .    .   divine  his  guilt! 

Twice — thrice  I  plunge  my  dagger  to  the  hilt 

In  his  vile  breast  .   .    .  fight  like  a  lion  .    .    .  slay  .    ,    . 
Sylvette  :  Three  or  four  men.    My  father  comes.    "Now  say 

Who  is  this  hero?"     And  he  learns  thy  name. 

"He  who  has  saved  my  daughter  well  may  claim 

Her  hand  in  marriage."    Oh,  he  quite  relents! 

Thy  father  sees  thy  valor  and  consents. 


8  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Percinet:  And  we  live  long  and  happy  ever  after. 
Sylvette:   That's  not  impossible,  or  food  for  laughter? 
Percinet  {hearing  a  noise)  :    Some  one   .    .    . 
Sylvette  (losing  her  head)  :  Let's  embrace  .    .    . 

Percinet  (embracing  her) :  Thou  wilt  come,  confess. 

Thou  wilt  not  fail  this  evening  at   .    .    . 
Sylvette  :  N-no. 

Percinet:  Yes. 

Sylvette  (disappearing  behind  the  wall)  :  Thy  father! 

(Percinet  leaps  quickly  from  the  wall.) 

SCENE  II 

Sylvette  (who  has  come  down  from  the  wall,  and  is  consequently 
invisible  to  Bergamin),  Percinet,  Bergamin 

Bergamin  :  In  this  corner !     More  and  more 

You  moon  here.     Why? 
Percinet:  My  father,  I  adore 

This  corner  of  the  park  .   .   .  the  bench  .   .   .  the  shades 

The  vine  filings  on  the  wall  ...  its  free  cascades. 

Gracious  and  graceful,  is  it  not,  this  vine? 

See  these  festoons.    An  arabesque  each  line. 

One  feels  at  peace  where  these  soft  breezes  call. 
Bergamin:    How  does  the  wall  help? 
Percinet:  I  adore  .   .  .  this  wall! 

Bergamin:    Nothing  that  I  can  see  here  to  adore. 
Sylvette  (hidden,  aside)  :    No,  he  can't  see! 
Percinet:  I  love  it  always  more, 

This  old  wall,  crowned  with  grass,  engarlanded 

Here,  with  green  ivy,  there,  with  woodbine  red; 

Aristolochia,  glycin  beautiful, 

Its  lovely  clusters  like  a  fleece  of  wool ; 

Dear  ancient  wall,  half  crumbling,  in  whose  spaces 

Eyes  lifted  to  the  sun,  are  rosy  daisies, 

And   honeysuckle, — all   these  starry   flowers, 

And  moss  so  thick  upon  this  wall  of  ours, 


ROMANTICS  9 

Even  tlie  bench  that  hard  beneath  must  cling 

Is  robed  with  velvet,  throne  for  any  king! 
Bergamin:   You  fhghty  boy,  shall  I  believe  that  all 

Thy  sheep's  eyes  seek  the  bright  eyes  of  a  wall? 
Percinet:   The  bright  eyes  of  a  wall! 

{He  turns  to  the  wall.)     Ah,  lovely  eyes, 

Astonishingly  blue  as  smiling  skies, 

Dear  flowers,  clear  eyes,  you  are  the  soul's  delight. 

If  tears  empearl  these  chalices  of  light, 

We'll  kiss  that  dew  off, — change  that  mournful  story. 
Bergamin  :   Wall's  got  no  eyes. 
Percinet:  It  has  a  morning  glory! 

{Gracefully  he  plucks  one  and  hands  it  to  Bergamin.) 
Sylvette:    Dear  Jesus,  what  a  soul! 
Bergamin:  The  boy's  an  ass! 

I  know  right  well  what  brought  you  to  this  pass. 

(Percinet  and  Sylvette  both  give  a  start  of  alarm.) 

You  come  to  read  in  secret! 

{He  takes  the  book  that  is  sticking  out  of  Percinet's  pocket 
and  looks  at  the  cover.) 

Plays! 

(  He  opens  the  book  and  lets  it  drop,  horrified.) 

In  verse! 

Poetry!       That's  why  you  get  worse  and  worse. 

Mooning!     And  hiding!     It's  enough  to  shock  you, — 

Your  grown  son  talk  about  "aristolochia," 

— And  blue  eyes  of  a  wall.    You  go  along! 

Walls  ain't  for  pretty,  but  they  must  be  strong. 

I'll  cut  away  this  foolish  greenery, 

Might  be  weak  places  hid  that  I  can't  see. 

Better  to  guard  us  from  our  hateful  neighbor 

A  new  white  wall  is  worth  the  price  o'  labor. 

White,  clean  and  bare,  and  no  aristolochia 

But  bits  of  broken  bottles.     That  will  block  you. 

Aye,  that  will  keep  you  off,  you  old  rapscallion! 

Those  bottles  In  array,  a  sharp  battalion ; 

{He  shakes  his  fist  in  the  direction  of  Pasquinot's  park.) 


10  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Percinet:   Mercy! 

Bergamin  :  No  mercy,  I'll  show  none  at  all. 

Bottles  shall  bristle  all  along  the  wall! 
Sylvette  and  Percinet:   Oh! 
Bergamin  {sitting  down  on  the  bench)  :  Let's  have  a  chat. 

{He  gets  up,  and  walks  back  a  few  steps,  eying  the  wall  sus- 
piciously.) But,  if  walls  haven't  eyes, 

Still,  walls  have  ears! 

{He  makes  a  motion  as  if  to  climb  up  on  the  bench.  Panic 
seizes  Percinet.  Sylvette  crouches  behind  the  wall,  a 
tiny  figure;  but  Bergamin,  with  a  wry  face,  abandons 
his  notion,  having  felt  a  rheumatic  twinge.  He  signs  to  his 
son  to  climb  and  look.) 

See,  Son,  if  someone  spies. 
Percinet   {readily,  climbing  on  the  bench  and  leaning  down  to 

Sylvette,  who  is  already  on  tiptoe  again)  : 

This  evening! 
Sylvette  {giving  him  her  finger  tips,  which  he  kisses)  : 

Oh,  before  the  hour  can  toll. 
Percinet  {ivhispering) :   I'll  be  there.  .   .   . 
Sylvette:  I  adore.   .    .    . 

Bergamin  :  Eh  ? 

Percinet  {jumping  down) :  Not  a  soul. 

Bergamin   {reassured,  sits  down  again)  : 

My  son,  I  want  a  wife  for  you,  so  I   .    .    . 
Sylvette:  Ah! 

Bergamin:  What's  that? 

Percinet:  Nothing. 

Bergamin  :  Yes,  a  feeble  cry. 

Percinet  {looking  into  the  air) :   A  wounded  bird   .    .    . 
Sylvette:  Alas! 

Percinet:  Caught  in  the  branches. 

Bergamin  :   After  reflexion,  for  I  take  no  chances, 

I  have  made  my  choice. 
Percinet  {walks  away,  whistling)  :   Dear!  Dear! 
Bergamin  :  'Twill  cost  you  dear 

If  you  rebel. 


ROMANTICS  11 

Terci'SET  (coming  back)  :   Dear!     Dear!     Dear!     Dear! 
Bergamin:    Don't  whistle  like  a  torn-tit,  silly  jay, — 

She's  rich,  still  fairly  young,  a  pearl,  I  say. 
Percinet:    If  I  won't  have  your  pearl? 
Bergamin:  You  say  this  thing? 

Wretch!     Rebel!    Wait,  I'll  show  you,  sir.   .    .    . 
Percinet  {pushing  aside  the  cane  his  father  raises) : 

The  Spring 

Fills  all  the  hedge-rows  with  the  sound  of  wings. 

The  forest  sees,  fluttering  above  her  springs, 

Her  mating  birds  caress. 
Bergamin:  Indecent!  Chaff! 

Percinet  (still  dodging  the  uplifted  stick)  : 

All  Nature  smiles.     Hark!     'Tis  young  April's  laugh. 

The  butterflies.   .    .    . 
Bergamin:  Clean  daft! 

Percinet:  In  green  fields  rove 

To  find  and  wed  the  wild  flowers  of  their  love. 

Love   .    .    . 
Bergamin:  Bandit! 

Percinet:  Bids  hearts  blossom  In  their  season, — 

You'd  have  me  make  a  marriage,  sir,  of  reason! 
Bergamin  :  That  shall  you,  scapegrace ! 
Percinet:  Never!    By  my  word, 

I  swear,  by  this  wall,  which  I  hope  has  heard, 

That  I  will  marry  so  romantically 

Never  was  marriage  such  as  mine  will  be, — 

A   marriage  madly,   royally   romantic! 

(He  dodges  and  runs  off.) 
Bergamin  (running  after  him)  :   I'll  stop  your  antics! 

SCENE  III 
Sylvette;  later,  Pasquinot 
Sylvette:  It  is  not  so  frantic, 

Pa's  hatred.    I  quite  share  it  now. 
Pasquinot  (coming  in,  Left) :  What's  this? 

What  are  you  doing  In  this  corner,  miss? 


12  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Sylvette  :    Nothing.    Just  walking ! 

Pasquinot:  Here?  Near  foes  so  spiteful? 

Are  you  not  frightened? 
Sylvette:  N-no,  I  am  not  .    .    .   frightful. 

Pasquinot:  Thou,  near  this  wall  alone!    Thou  art  forbidden 

To  approach  this  wall.    You  know  what  there  is  hidden. 

Look  on  that  park.     On  yonder  side,  they  gather, 

Mine  ancient  foemen! 
Sylvette:  Oh,  I  know  it,  Father. 

Pasquinot:    Expose  thyself  to  words  outrageous, 

To  .   .    .  What  affronts  might  they  not  heap  on  us 

If  that  old  scoundrel  or  his  whelp  should  find 

You  day-dream  near  this  wall!     It  chills  my  mind, — 

Sets  me  a-shaking,  just  the  very  thought! 

Aha,  their  wicked  plans  shall  come  to  naught. 

I'll  make  this  top  bristle  with  iron  spikes. 

— That  will  impale  the  fellow  and  his  likes! 

They'll  run  him  through  if  he  so  much  as  touch. 
Sylvette  (aside)  :    He  will  not  do  it.     It  would  cost  too  much; 

A  little  close,  papa. 
Pasquinot:  Now  run  away. 

(Sylvette  goes  out;  her  father  watches  her  with  a  satisfied 
expression.) 

SCENE  IV 
Bergamin,  Pasquinot 

Bergamin  {speaking  off  stage)  :   This  note  to  Straforel,  without 

delay. 
Pasquinot    {runs   quickly   to   the  wall  and  climbs   up   on   it) : 

Bergamin ! 
Bergamin   {same  business)  :  Pasquinot! 

{They  embrace.) 
Pasquinot:    How  goes  it? 
Bergamin  :  Fairly. 

Pasquinot:    Thy  gout? 


ROMANTICS  13 

Bergamin:  Better.    Thy  cold? 

Pasquinot:  Thou  knowst  I'm  rarely 

Free  from  that  plague. 
Bergamin:  Well,  well,  the  match  is  made! 

Pasquinot:    Hein? 
Bergamin  :  I  heard  all,  hidden  in  this  leafy  shade. 

They  adore  each  other! 
Pasquinot:  Bravo! 

Bergamin   {rubbing  his  hands  together)  :    All  our  doing! 

Widowers,  fathers,  we  arranged  their  wooing. 

Me  with  a  son  his  mother  willy  nilly 

Would  christen  Percinet.   .    .    . 
Pasquinot:  The  name  is  silly. 

Bergamin:    Thou  with  Sylvette,  dreamy  blue  eyes  and  all, 

We  with  one  aim.   ...  • 

Pasquinot:  To  take  away  the  wall.  .    .    . 

Bergamin  :   And  live  together  .    .    . 

Pasquinot:  Join  our  boundaries,  man.   .    .    . 

Bergamin:   Old  neighbor's  hobby  .   .   . 

Pasquinot:  And  old  landlord's  plan! 

Bergamin  :  For  that  we  needed   .    .    . 
Pasquinot  :  Marry  our  two  children ! 

Bergamin:  Marry  those  two.  ...  At  first,  'twas  quite  bewil- 
derin' 

If  they  suspected  what  we  two  desire, 

The  goose  was  cooked.     Their  fancy  must  be  fired, 

Two  young  folks,  both  chock-full  of  poetn,. 

With  them  at  school,  we  made  our  plans,  y'  see, 

And  married  them  to  suit  ourselves,  but  here 

College  and  convent  turned  them  loose  this  year. 

I  saj's,  says  I,  "Oppose  it,  and  no  doubt 

We'll  make  those  children  seek  each  other  out." 

To  love  in  secret,  guilty  and  pursued, 

Would  please  'em ;  so  I  cooked  up  this  here  feud. 

My  plan !    You  always  questioned  its  success. 

Now  all  that's  lacking  is  a  father's  yes. 


14  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Pasquinot:    Maybe.     But  how?    Careful,  is  what  I  say. 

Consenting  now  would  give  our  game  away. 

I  have  called  you  rascal,  knave,  gump   .    .    . 
Bergamin:  Gump,  indeed? 

Rascal's  enough.     Don't  go  beyond  the  need. 
Pasquinot:  What  pretext? 
Bergamin  :  Hear.    I  got  the  hint  from  them. 

Thy  daughter's  prattle  planned  our  stratagem. 

They  babbled,  and  I  listened,  heard  them  say, 

This  evening  they'll  meet  here.     My  Percinet 

Comes  first,  of  course.     The  moment  thy  Sylvette 

Appears, — masked  bandits  leap  from  hiding,  set 

On  and  kidnap  her.     She  shrieks!     My  boy 

Rushes  to  her  assistance !    Rescue !    Joy ! 
,  The  bravos  flee !    You  come.     I  have  arrived. 

Thy  daughter,  saved.     My  hero  son,  survived. 

Thou  givest  thy  blessing.     Tears  paternal  flow. 

My  heart  relents.     We  bless  the  pair.     Tableau. 
Pasquinot:  Ah,  that  is  genius.    That's  a  true  example 

Of  genius! 
Bergamin    {modest   and   judicial):   Talent,    say — yes — talent's 
ample. 

'Sh !  Look  who  comes.  The  bravo,  Straforel. 

I  wrote  him  fully.     Little's  left  to  tell. 

He  has  the  outline.     Details  must  be  painted 

For  the  abduction, 

(Straforel  in  a  grand  bandit  costume  appears  at  the  back, 
centre,  and  advances  majestically.) 

SCENE   V 
The  Same.     Straforel 

Bergamin    {coming  doiun  from   the  wall,  and  greeting  Stra- 
forel) :  Hum!     Make  you  acquainted 

With  my  friend,  Pasquinot. 
Straforel  {bowing)  :   Sir  .    .    .^ 

{Straightening  up,  he  is  surprised  not  to  see  Pasquinot.) 


ROMANTICS  15 

Bercamin     {pointing    to    Pasquinot,    still    sitting    astride    the 
wall)  :  On  tlie  wall. 

Straforel  {aside)  :   Astonishing!  He's  ripe  enough  to  fall. 

Bergamin:    Master,  my  scheme  appeared    .    .    . 

Straforel:  Elementary. 

Bergamin:   You  understand,  act  quick  .   .   . 

Straforei,  :  Am  silent,  very. 

Bergamin:   A  feigned  abduction.     Duel  feigned.     Be  sure  .    .    . 

Straforel:  Aye.   .    .    . 

Bergamin  :  Choose  skilled  fencers.     I  could  not  endure 

A  wound  for  my  joung  cock, — my  only  son. 

Straforel:    I'll  handle  him  myself.     'Twill  be  well  done. 

Bergamin:   Ah,  well,  that  bridge  is  safe  before  it's  crossed. 

Pasquinot  {whispering  to  Bergamin)  : 

Say   .    .    .   better  ask  him  what  it's  going  to  cost. 

Bergamin:   What  do  you  ask,  dear  sir,  for  an  abduction? 

Straforel  :    Sometimes  there's  extras,  sometimes  a  reduction. 
Abductions,  sir,  have  quite  a  range  of  prices. 
But  in  this  case  according  to  advices, 
We  need  not  count  the  cost.     Your  lad  and  lass 
Are  worth,  one  fancies,  one  of  the  first  class. 

Bergamin  {dazzled)  :   Ah,  you  have  classes? 

Straforel:  From  a  common  ruction 

To  the  highest,  sir.     Imagine  an  abduction, 
Two  men  in  black,  vulgar  kidnappers,  creep 
Up  in  a  cab.     That  kind  comes  very  cheap. 
Next,  night  abductions.    Those  by  day  cost  more. 
Pompous  abduction  with  a  coach  and  four. 
And  lackeys  curled  and  powdered. — Wigs,  I  figure, 
Are  always  extra. — Eunuch,  mute  or  negro, 
Sbirro,   brigand,   musquetaire, — in   courses; 
There's  post  abductions,  two  horse;  three,  four  horses, 
One  can  augment  ad  libitum  the  number ; — 
Top-chaise  abduction^;,  always  rather  sombre; 
Abductions  in  a  bag, — burlesque.    Then  take 
Romantic  ones  in  boats. — Calls  for  a  lake. 


16  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Venetian  gondola  takes  a  lagoon ! 

Abductions  by  the  pale  light  of  the  moon! 

— Moonlight  comes  high,  sirs,  but  it  is  good  form. — 

Abduction  sinister  lit  by  a  storm, 

Flashing  of  lightning  and  of  steel, — quite  grim. 

Mantels  dark-hued,  plumed  hats  with  spreading  brim; 

Abduction,  country-style,  one  for  the  city; 

Torch-light  abduction, — that  one's  rather  pretty! 

The  masked  abduction,  strictly  classical; 

There's  one  to  music,   suited   to  a  ball : 

The  sedan-chair  abduction  makes  a  stir. 

That's  gayest,  newest,  most  distinguished,  sir. 
Bergamin    {nodding  to  Pasquinot)  :    Well? 
Pasquinot:   Hon   .    .    .   well? 
Bergamin  :  I  think,  'twill  charm  their  senses 

To  go  the  whole  hog — never  mind  expenses. 

I  say,  let's  have  a  little  of  each  one. 

Make  an  abduction.    .    .    . 
Straforel:  Plumed?     It  could  be  done. 

Bergamin  :    Let's  give  the  children  the  romance  they  ask,— 

Sedan  chair,  torches,  music,  plume  and  mask. 
Straforel  (making  ?nemoranda)  :   Let's  see  .    .   .  to  make  these 
varied  groupings  dextrous, 

Abduction  of  the  highest  class  .    .    .  with  extras. 
Bergamin:  Done! 
Straforel:       Soon  I  will  return.    But  it  behooves 

You  leave  the  gate  unbarred,  and  oil  the  groves. 
Bergamin  :    Open  and  noiseless. 
Straforel  {boiving)  :    Now,  my  best  respect,  sirs. 

(As  he  goes  out.) 

Abduction  of  the  highest  class,  with  extras. 

SCENE  VI 
Bergamin,  Pasquinot 

Pasquinot:    With  his  grand  air,  he  goes,  the  honest  one, 
And  never  named  the  price. 


ROMANTICS  17 

Bergamin  :  As  good  as  done ! 

We  will  pull  down  the  wall ;  have  one  fireside !  .   .   . 
Pasquinot:    Winters  in  Paris  in  one  house,  beside! 
Bergamin  :   Make  all  those  charming  changes  we  have  planned. 
Pasquinot:   We'll  shape  the  yews. 

Bergamin  :  Whiten  the  walks  with  sand.   .    .    . 

Pasquinot:   Set  out  round  flower  beds,  finer  than  a  fiddle, 

— Our  monograms  in  posies  in  the  middle! 
Bergamin:    It's  too  severe  and  plain,  this  stretch  of  grass. 
Pasquinot:   We'll  liven  it  with  bowls  of  colored  glass. 
Bergamin:   Buy  a  new  fountain  for  the  gold  fish,  hey? 
Pasquinot:  Yes,  with  an  egg  that  dances  in  the  spray. 

We'll  have  a  rookery!     Old  son,  say  whether    .    .    . 
Bergamin  :  We've  got  our  wish  ! 

Pasquinot:  Our  old  age,  spent  together. 

Bergamin  :  Thy  girl  is  settled ! 
Pasquinot:  And  thy  boy,  also! 

Together:  Ah,  my  old  Bergamin! 
Ah,  my  old  Pasquinot! 

{They  fall  into  each  other's  arms.) 

SCENE  VII 

The  Same:    Sylvette,  Percinet,  ivho  enter  suddenly  from  dif- 
ferent sides  of  the  wall 

Sylvette  {seeing  her  father  hold  Bergamin)  :    Ah! 
Bergamin  {seeing  Sylvette,  to  Pasquinot)  :  Thy  daughter! 
Percinet  {seeing  his  father  hold  Pasquinot)  :    Ah! 
Pasquinot  {seeing  Percinet,  to  Bergamin)  :   Thy  son! 
Bergamin  {ivhispcring,  to  Pasquinot):   Let's  fight! 

{They  change  the  embrace  to  a  clinch.)     Take  that! 
Pasquinot  :   Villain ! 

Sylvette   {catching  her  father's  coat  tail):  Papa! 
Percinet  {same  business)  :    Papa! 
Bergamin:  Let  go,  you  brat ! 

Pasquinot:   'Twas  he  insulted  me! 


18  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Bergamin  :  He  hit  me !     Hah ! 

Pasquinot  :   Coward ! 

Sylvette :  Pa ! 

Bergamin  :  Knave ! 

Percinet:  Pa! 

Pasquinot:  Liar!    Wretch! 

Sylvette :  Papa ! 

{They  separate  the  combatants.) 
Percinet  {leading  his  father  away)  :   Come  in.    It's  late. 
Bergamin    {struggling  to  turn  back):    This  rage!     This  par- 
oxysm ! 
Pasquinot  {same  busi?iess,  with  Sylvette)  :    I  foam.   .    .    . 
Sylvette  {coaxing  him  into  the  house)  :  The  night  air,  and  your 
rheumatism. 

SCENE  vni 

Daylight  fades  softly.  For  a  moment,  the  stage  is  empty.  Later, 
in  Pasquinot's  park,  enter  Straforel  and  his  Bravoes, 
Musicians,  etc. 

Straforel:   A  single  star  enstars  the  heavens  fair. 
Day  dies. 
{He  places  his  men.) 

You    there.    .    .    .   You,    there.    .    .    .   You,    there. 
The  sacring  bell  will  sound.     The  hour  is  near. 
White,  glimmering  through  the  dusk,  she  will  appear. 
I'll  whistle.     Then   .    .    . 
{He  looks  up  at  the  sky.) 

The  moon !     Could  heart  expect 
A  fitter  setting  for  a  fine  effect? 
{Looking  at  the  extravagant  cloaks  of  the  Bravoes.) 
The  cloaks  are  excellent.    Toss  back  that  cape.    .    .    . 
That's  better.  .    .    .  You,  on  guard,  and  mind  your  shape! 
{'J  he  sedan  chair  is  carried  in.) 
Chair  in  the  shadows.    .    .    . 
{Looking  at  the  bearers,  who  are  black.) 


ROMANTICS  19 

Moors!     Good!    .    .    .   That  will  do. 
{Calling  into  the  wings.) 
Torches,  keep  hidden  till  you  get  your  cue. 
{One  sees,  dimly,  in  the  background,  the  pink  reflection  of  the 

torches,  hidden  among  the  trees.    Enter  the  Musicians.) 
Musicians, — there,  where  torch-lights  cast  pink  roses. 
Be  graceful, — pliant, — varied, — in  your  poses. 
Mandolin,  stand!     Alto,  be  seated!     So! 
Look  like  The  Woodland  Concert  of  Watteau. 
{Severely,  to  one  of  the  Bravoes.) 
First-Bravo-in-a-Mask,  what's  that?     You  twist? 
There,  that's  much  better.     Fine!     Soft  music.     Hist! 
Oh,  will  you  get  together?   .    .    .    Do,  me,  re.    .    .    . 
{He  puts  on  his  mask.) 


SCENE  IX 
The  Same.     Percinet 

Percinet  {enters  slowly.    As  he  declaims  the  following  lines  the 
shadows  deepen  and  the  sky  grows  bright  with  stars)  : 

Father  is  quiet.     I  could  steal  away. 

Dusk  wraps  the  world.    Ghost-dim,  the  elder  flower 

Adds  subtle  sweetness  to  this  magic  hour. 
Straforel  {whispering  to  the  Musicians)  :    Music! 

{The  Musicians  play  softly  till  the  end  of  the  act.) 
Percinet:  I  tremble  like  a  reed.     I  grow  so 

Faint  with  delight.     She's  coming! 
Straforel  {to  the  Musicians)  :  Amoroso. 

Percinet:    This  evening,  my  first  tryst.     O  hour  to  bless, 

The  soft  breeze  rustles  like  a  silken  dress  .    .    . 

Gray  twilight  hides  the  flowers  .    .    .   tears  fill  my  eyes. 

Oh,  hidden  blooms,  your  perfumes  sweeter  rise! 

Tall  tree,  a  star  ensilvers  thy  great  dome! 

Whence  is  this  music?    Lo,  the  night  has  come. 


20  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Sweet  night  has  come.    Dear  day,  you  die. 
The  deepening  azure  of  the  sky 
Brightens  with  lamps,  serene  and  high, 

Lit  one  by  one. 
While  in  the  pools  the  hylas  call, 
The  stars  shine  out,  encircling  all 
The  moon's  slim  crescent.     Pale  beams  fall. 

I  wait,  alone. 

O  gleams  of  sapphire!    Diamond  rays! 
Stars, — I,  your  lover  all  my  days. 
In  ardent  twilights  sang  your  praise 

Lost  in  a  mist. 
My  song  has  found  a  new  theme  now. 
Sweet,  whispered  words  claim  all  my  vow. 
Short  curls  bedeck  a  star-white  brow. 
Sylvette  keeps  tyrst! 

Dear  stars  of  heaven,  high  astral  light, 
Millions  on  millions,  blue  and  bright. 
Yet  shall  be  put  to  shame  this  night, 

At  high  heaven's  bars. 
She  will  appear.     From  your  clear  skies 
You  suddenly  shall  see  her  eyes. 
And  ye  yourselves  your  rays  despise, 

My  poor,  dimmed  stars ! 

(In  the  distance  a  bell  rings.) 


SCENE  X 

The  Same,  Sylvette,  later,  Bergamin,  Pasquinot 

Sylvette  (appearing  at  the  stroke  of  the  clock)  : 
The  sacring  bell!     He  waits!    .    .    . 

(A   signal  is  given.      Straforel  rushes  up   to   her;   torches 
appear. )  Ah ! 


ROMANTICS  21 

( The  Bravoes  seize  her  and  bear  her  swiftly  to  the  sedan 
chair.)  To  my  aid! 

Percinet:   Just  heaven! 
Sylvette:  Percinet! 

Percinet:  Be  not  afraid! 

I  come! 

{He  scrambles  over  the  wall,  draws  his  sword  and  clashes 
with  the  Bravoes.) 

Take  that!    That!    That! 
Straforel  (to  the  Musicians)  :  Tremolo. 

{The  violins  strike   up  a  dramatic   tremolo.      The  Bravoes 
flee.) 
Straforel  {in  a  theatrical  voice) :  Per  Baccho! 

This  youth  fights  like  the  devil! 

{Duel  between  Percinet  and  Straforel.    Straforel  sud- 
denly puts  his  hand  to  his  breast.)  The  fatal  blovv^! 
{He  falls.) 
Percinet  {rushes  to  Sylvette)  :   Sylvette! 

{Tableau.    She  is  in  the  sedan  chair,  the  curtain  drawn  back; 
he  kneels.) 
Sylvette:  My  rescuer! 

Pasquinot    {rushing  in)  :  Bergamin's  son! 

My  child's  deliverer!  Take  her!  Thou  hast  won! 
Sylvette  and  Percinet:    Heaven! 

(Bergamin  enters  precipitately  from   his  side,  followed  by 
servants  zvith  torches.) 
Pasquinot  {to  Bergamin,  as  he  appears  on  the  top  of  the  wall)  : 
Thy  son,  sir,  is  a  hero!     Bless  the  pair 
And  pardon  me! 
Percinet    {whispering)  :     Sylvette,   we're   dreaming.      Whisper, 
darling,  so 
Lest  our  own  voices  bid  the  dear  dream  go. 
Bergamin:    Hate  dies  at  Hymen's  altar.     Love  is  all. 
The  Peace  is  made. 
{He  points  dramatically  to  the  wall.) 

The  Pyrenees  must  fall. 


22  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Percinet:  Who  would  have  dreamed  Father  could  be  so  changed? 
Sylvette:   I  told  you  so.    I  knew  it  would  be  arranged. 

(While  they  go  up,  uith  Pasquinot,  Straforel  lifts  him- 
self, and  hands  a  paper  to  Bergamin.) 
Bergamin  {ivhispering)  :  This  paper,  signed,  and  this  blank  space 
to  fill.  .    .    . 
What  is  this,  if  you  please? 
Straforel:  Sir,  it's  my  bill. 

{He  falls  back.) 

{Curtain) 


ACT  II 

The  setting  is  the  same.  The  wall  has  disappeared.  The 
benches  that  were  set  against  the  wall  now  are  placed  on  the  Right 
hand  and  the  Left. 

The  grounds  are  altered  as  to  details.  There  arc  flower  beds, 
summer  houses,  plaster  statues,  a  rustic  table,  chairs.  As  the  cur- 
tain rises,  Pasquinot,  sitting  on  the  bench  at  the  Right,  reads  his 
Gazette.     Blaise  is  raking  the  flower  beds. 

SCENE  I 
Pasquinot;  Blaise;  later,   Bergamin 

Blaise:    This  evening,  sir,  the  notary  comes,  you  say? 

A  month  ago,  they  took  the  wall  away. 

And  you  all  live  together.     Time,  I  vow. 

Our  little  lovers  must  be  happy  now. 
Pasquinot  {raising  his  head  and  looking  around)  : 

It's  fine  without  the  wall — eh,  Blaise? 
Blaise:  Superb,  sir. 

Pasquinot  :  Yes, 

My  park  has  gained  cent  per  cent. 

{He  leans  doivn  and  touches  a  tuft  of  grass.) 

Here,  here,  this  grass 

Is  damp.     It  has  been  watered  !     It's  my  rule  {furious) 

Never  to  water  before  sundown,  fool! 
Blaise  {placidly)  :   'Twas  Mr.  Bergamin  that  gave  the  order. 
Pasquinot:   Ah!     Our  good  Bergamin  does  seem  to  border 

On  stubbornness.     He  waters  out  of  reason. 

Good  gardeners  water  little,  but  in  season. 

Oh,  well  I 

23 


24  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

{To  Blaise)   Make  haste.     Set  out  the  potted  plants. 
(Blaise  goes  back,  and  begins  to  carry  in  the  potted  plants 
from  the  green  house.     Pasquinot  reads.     Bergamin  ap- 
pears, C.) 
Bergamin  {watering  the  shrubbery  from  a  huge  watering  pot)  : 
Ouf!     Give  a  flower  the  drenching  that  it  wants. 
Enough  is  not  enough,  as  some  folks  think. 
{To  a  tree)  Thirsty,  old  fellow?     Come  and  have  a  drink. 
Here's  water  for  you.     Dry!     I  told  you!     Very! 
{Putting  his  watering  pot  down  and  looking  around  compla- 
cently.) 
My  park  has  gained.     I  like  this  statuary. 
{Seeing  Pasquinot.) 
Good  day. 
{No  answer.) 

Good  day. 
{No  answer.) 

Good  day. 
{No  answer.) 

Well,  I  attend. 
Pasquinot:  We  see  each  other  all  the  time,  my  friend. 
Bergamin:    Eh?     Well? 

{Seeing  the  plants  Blaise  is  setting  out.) 

Put  those  plants  back! 
(Blaise,  flustered,  carries  them  away  precipitately.  Pasqui- 
not raises  his  eyes  to  heaven,  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and 
reads.  Bergamin  walks  idly  up  and  down  and  at  last 
sits  down  by  Pasquinot  on  the  bench.  Suddenly,  mel- 
ancholy)— 
Bergamin  :  Soft  as  a  mouse, 

At  this  hour  I  would  sally  from  my  house   .    .    . 
Pasquinot  {musingly,  lowering  his  paper)  : 

And  I,  from  mine,  like  some  marauding  stranger. 
It  was  amusing. 
Bergamin  :  Secrecy ! 

Pasquinot:  And  danger! 


ROMANTICS  25 

Bergamin:   We  stalked  the  boy  and  girl  as  hunters  stalk 

Tiieir  game,  before  we  had  a  dish  of  talk. 
Pasquinot:    One  risked,  each  time  he  climbed  tiie  wall  alone 

A  fall,  a  bruise  perhaps  a  broken  bone. 
Bergamin:   And  yet  our  friendly  gossip  did  not  fail. 

We  hunted  it  like  Indians  on  the  trail. 
Pasquinot:  I'd  steal  along  just  where  the  hedge  was  thickest 

— It  was  amusing. 
Bergamin  :  If  to  crawl  was  quickest 

My  breeches  at  the  knees  were  stained  with  green. 
Pasquinot:    What  lies  we  told!  And  that  there  fighting  scene! 
Bergamin:   Our  talk  of  grudge  and  hate. 
Pasquinot:  It  was  amusing! 

{Yawning.)     Bergamin? 
Bergamin  {yaivning)  :    Pasquinot? 

Pasquinot:  Think  what  we  are  losing. 

Bergamin:  Pshaw,  no! 

{After  a  reflective  pause.) 

That's  funny.    We  do  miss  those  antics. 

Can  this  be  the  revenge  of  our  Romantics? 

{Silence.    He  looks  at  Pasquinot,  who  reads)  : 

His  waistcoat  lacks  a  button.    A  reproach 

To  a  man's  raising. 

{He  gets  up,  walks  azvay,  comes  back,  walks  up  and  down.) 
Pasquinot  {looking  at  him  over  the  edge  of  his  paper)  : 

Like  some  huge  cockroach, 

Scuttling  about,  coat  tails  like  shards,  but  thicker. 
Bergamin  {looking  at  him)  : 

Squints  when  he  reads, — looks  like  a  goollylicker 

After  a  butterfly. 

{He  ivalks  back,  whistling.) 
Pasquinot  {aside,  nervously)  :  A  trick.     Whistling  to  beat  the 
piper. 

{Aloud.)     Oh,  quit  that!     Whistling  like  a  blowing  viper. 
Bergamin:    Motes  are  apparent  in  our  brother's  eyes. 

Concerning  beams,  we  are  not  half  so  wise. 

You  have  your  ways ! 


26  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Pasquinot:  I? 

Bergamin  :  Yes.     You  can't  sit  still. 

You  sniffle  all  the  time, — it  makes  me  ill, — 

You  King  of  Colds,  or  sneezing  that-a-waj'. 

You  tell  one  story  twenty  times  a  day. 
Pasquinot  {ivho,  still  seated,  has  crossed  his  legs  and  is  swing- 
ing one  foot)  :    But    .    .    . 
Bergamin:   Always  you  sit, — it  shows  a  lack  of  sense,  sir, — 

Swinging  j-our  foot  before  you  like  a  censer. 

At  table,  you  roll  bread  crumbs  in  a  ball. 

It's  you  have  ways  to  make  a  man's  flesh  crawl ! 
Pasquinot:  Blue-moldy  for  excitement!     That's  the  story! 

You've  leisure  now  to  make  an  inventory. 

You  count  my  ways,  my  tricks,  tell  all  the  list. 

Communal  life  is  a  great  oculist. 

My  blindness,  too,  is  cured.     I  see  your  pride. 

Your  meanness,  your  bad  manners,  magnified. 

A  fly  is  pretty  and  amusing  both, — 

But  it  becomes  a  monster  in  the  broth. 
Bergamin  :    I  have  suspected, — now  I  see  it  all. 
Pasquinot:    What? 

Bergamin:  The  wall  flattered  you! 

Pasquinot:  You,  too,  need  wall! 

Bergamin:  Together,  we  can't  want  to  see  each  other. 
Pasquinot    {explosively)  :    We  have  not  lived,  since  we  have 

lived  together! 
Bergamin   {smugly)  :    Oh,  well,  sir.     Very  well.     But  this  our 
plight 

Was  not  done  for  ourselves,  eh? 
Pasquinot:  You  are  right. 

Bergamin  :    'Twas  for  our  children. 
Pasquinot:  For  our  children.    Then 

Let's  sufifer  silently,  endure  like  men 

Our  common  loss.     It  must  not  be  apparent. 
Bergamin:    Denial  is  the  lot  of  every  parent. 

(Sylvette   and   Percinet  appear,    Left,    back,   among   the 


ROMANTICS  27 

trees.      They  walk  slowly  across  the  lawn,  arms  entwined; 
they  make  lofty  gestures.) 
Pasquinot:  'Sh!  here  are  the  lovers. 
Bergamin  (zvatchinff  them)  :    Do  you  see  those  poses? 

They  think  they're  acting  out  apotheoses, 
Pasquinot:    Since  their  adventure,  each,  upon  my  soul, 

Sees  on  the  other's  head  an  aureole. 
Bergamin:    This  is  the  hour  that,  copying  pose  and  looks 

From  'Tilgrim  Lovers"  in  the  picture  books, 

They  come  each  day,  as  punctual  as  the  dial, 

To  make  the  stations  of  their  "True  Love's  Trial." 

(Sylvette  and  Percinet,  who  had  disappeared  for  a  mo- 
ment. Right,  reappear  a  little  nearer  and  corne  down.) 

Here  are  our  pilgrims. 
Pasquinot:  If  their  prattle  prove 

Like  it  has  been,  'twill  be  worth  hearing. 

(Bergamin  and  Pasquinot  slip  behind  a  clump  of  bushes.) 

SCENE    II 

Sylvette,  Percinet;  Bergamin,  Pasquinot   {hidden) 

Percinet:  Love! 

Sylvette:    I  love  thee. 

{They  stop.)  The  illustrious  spot  we  near. 

Percinet:    Right  here  the  deed  was  done.    Aye,  it  was  here! 

The  brute  fell  heavily,  transfixed,  thus. 
Sylvette:  There,  I,  Andromeda   .    .    . 
Percinet:  I,  Perseus! 

Sylvette:    How  many  foes  opposed  thee? 
Percinet:  Ten. 

Sylvette:  Twice  ten! 

Twenty,  without  the  leader  of  the  men. 

Thou  did'st  correct  the  fury  of  that  beast! 
Percinet:  Yes,  you  are  right.    .    .    .   Aye,  thirty  men  at  least. 
Sylvette:  Tell  me  how,  dagger  drawn,  eyes  like  the  sun, 

You  smote  them  to  the  earth,  my  Glorious  One ! 


28  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Percinet:    I  can't  recall  the  cuts,  the  thrusts,  the  guards. 

I  know  they  tumbled  like  a  pack  of  cards. 
Sylvette  :   Wert  thou  less  fair,  I  had  believed, — I  tremble 

Remembering  it, — I  saw  the  Cid  himself. 
Percixet:  We  do  resemble. 

Sylvette:    Our  love  lacks  but  a  poem,  that  should  prove  thee 

Hero  of  heroes. 
Percinet:  There  shall  be  one. 

Sylvette  and  Percinet  {together)  :  I  love  thee. 

Sylvette:    My  dream  come  true!     So  often  I  had  vowed 

To  wed  a  hero,  noble,  reckless,  proud ; 

Not  the  "  safe  match"  of  common  families. 
Percinet  :   Ah  ? 
Sylvette  :  Girls  are  always  offered  things  like  these  ; 

The  mild  young  man  for  sisterly  affection ; — 

One  older,  like  a  priest, — "Youth  needs  direction." 
Percinet:   Thou  wouldst  not  wed,  on  this  I  can  depend, 

The  inevitable  "son  of  father's  friend." 
Sylvette  {laughing)  :  No!  .   .   .  Hast  thou  marked, — to  come  to 
lower  levels, — 

Our  fathers,  in  one  mood? 
Percinet  {nodding)  :  And  that,  the  devil's. 

Bergamin  {behind  the  hushes):  Hum!    .    .    . 
Percinet:  Yes,  I  know  just  what  has  taken  place. 

Bergamin  {hidden):    Hah! 
Percinet:  Yes,  our  flights  disturb  their  humdrum  pace. 

I  do  respect  our  parents'  simple  nature. 

But, — men  of  middle  class  and  middle  stature, — 

Our  fame  o'ershadows  them,  indeed,  quite  covers.    .    .    . 
Pasquinot    {behind  the  bushes):   Hein? 
Sylvette:    Yes, — just  "Fathers  of  the  immortal  lovers!" 
Percinet  {laughing)  :    My  crest  is  raised  too  high  for  men  like 

these. 
SylvI'Ttr:    Thy  father  seems  a  little  ill  at  ease, 

Like — dare  I  say  it?   .    .    . 
Percinet:  Yes,  thy  will  is  regal. 


SiriiOEl'Hi-BEfiaTiPaL-^nD 


ROMANTICS  29 

Sylvette:    Then   .    .    .   like  a  duck  that  finds  she's  hatched  an 

eagle. 
Bergamin   {hidden):    Ho!     Ho! 

Sylveti'E  {laughing  more  gaily)  :  Poor  parents,  how  our  love  in 
secrecy 

Made  sport  of  them ! 
Pasquinot  {behind  the  shrubbery)  :    He!  He! 
Percinet:  Yes,  Destiny 

Marks  true  love's  path  however  it  meanders. 

Still  Scapins  are  the  servants  of  Leanders. 
Bergamin   {behind  the  shrubbery)  :    Ha!  ha! 
Sylvette:   This  evening  our  betrothal,  love,  begins, 

The  contract.    .    .    . 
Percinet  {starting  down)  :   I  must  tell  the  violins. 
Sylvette:   Be  fleet! 
Percinet:  I  fly. 

Sylvette  {recalling  him)  :  I  grow  so  kind  of  late. 

My  lord,  I  will  conduct  you  to  the  gate. 

{They  go  down,  arms  interlaced,  Sylvette  mincing  as  she 
walks. ) 

We'll  equal,  I  am  sure,  the  greatest  Lovers. 
Percinet:    Eternal  glory  round  our  romance  hovers; 

Romeo,  Juliet — Aide,  Roland, 
Sylvette  :  Pyramus 

And  Thisbe. 
Percinet:  Aminta  and  her  Shepherd. 
Sylvette:  All  like  Us. 

All  of  them, 

{They  have  disappeared;  but  one  hears  their  voices  among 
the  trees.) 
Voice  of  Percinet:  Francesca  of  Rimini, 

Thou  knowest.    .    .    . 
Voice  of  Sylvette:       Petrarch    .    .    .    Laura   .    .    . 
Bergamin   {coming  from  behind  the  shrubbery)  : 

Well,  by  Gemini! 


30  .    PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

SCENE    III 
Pasquinot,  Bergamin 

Pasquinot  {coming  out,  also;  mockingly)  : 

Smarty,  thy  plan  of  which  thou  wast  so  fond 

Has  met  thy  hopes,  and,  maybe,  gone  beyond. 

We  know  now  how  it  works,  and,  lackadaisy! 

Our  son  and  daughter  are  completely  crazy, 
Bergamin  :  Thy  girl  does  make  me  fidgety  enough, — 

Rape  of  Lucrece  and  all  that  sickening  stuff! 
Pasquinot:    Thy  son,  with  all  that  hero-talk  he  serves, 

Is  just  as  racking  to  a  fellow's  nerves. 
Bergamin:    What  makes  me  fractious  is,  we're  represented 

As  dupes,  and  dull  old  parents  who  relented. 

Our  voluntary  blindness,  they  are  sure. 

Was  genuine;  their  meetings  quite  secure. 

My  feeling  may  be  silly, — but  it's  hearty. 
Pasquinot:    Foresaw  that,  too,  I  reckon,  Mr.  Smarty? 

The  duel  left  thy  musketeer  so  flustered 

He  thinks  he's  the  sole  soldier  ever  mustered. 
Bergamin  :    Mustard  gets  up  my  nose,  but,  anyway, 

It  doesn't  make  him  smart. 
Pasquinot:  I'm  going  to  tell! 

Bergamin:  Delay! 

Delay's  the  word.     The  time  for  our  confessing 

Is — after  they  receive  the  marriage  blessing. 

Till  the  last  strain  of  wedding  bell  and  harp, 

We  must  be  silent, — dumb  as  any  carp. 
Pasquinot:    So  be  it.    We  are  caught  in  our  own  net, 

Thanks  to  your  famous  plan. 
Bergamin  :  Eh,  don't  forget 

You  praised  it. 
Pasquinot:  Great  plan!    Great! 

Bergamin  {aside)  :  The  fellow  grates  on  me. 


ROMANTICS  31 

SCENE  IV 

The   Same.     Sylvette 

{She  enters  ffnily,  a  spray  of  flowers  in  her  hand;  ivith  this 
she  gesticulates  and  ivaves  to  Percinet,  who  has  just  dis- 
appeared; then  she  comes  doiun  to  the  two  fathers.) 

Sylvette:   Greeting,  Papa.    Greeting,  Papa-to-be! 

Bergamin:    Howdy,  child. 

Sylvette  {mimicking  him):    How  grumpy!     "Howdy,  child." 

You  seem    .    .    .    wliat  would  you  call   it?    .    .    .    I  know. 

"Riled."        . 
Bergamin:    It's  Pasquinot  who  makes   .    .    . 
Sylvette  {luaving  her  spray  of  floivers  under  his  nose)  : 

'Sh, 'sh!    Becalm! 

I  come  as  Peace;  as  Peace  I  wave  my  palm! 

You  two  still  sulk  a  bit!   That's  understood; 

Of  course  you  can't  behave  as  old  friends  should. 
Pasquinot  {aside)  :   The  irony! 
Bergamin   {aloud,  mockingly):    'Tis  true!     Our  earlier  state 

Was  such.   .    .    . 
Sylvette:  Just  think!    It  was  a  deadly  hate. 

What  dreadful  things  you  said!     When  I  recall 

The  words  I  heard,  safe  sheltered  by  the  wall, 

The  good,  wise  wall!    So  perfect  a  defense, 

You  never  dreamed  of  .   .   . 
Bergamin  {aside)  :  Not  a  lick  of  sense! 

Sylvette  {to  Pasquinot)  :    For  every  day  I  came, — you  know, 
at  last ! — 

To  meet  my  Percinet.     The  sweet  days  passed 

And  you, — confess, — knew  naught ! 
Pasquinot  {sarcastically)  :   I  knew  a  power! 
Sylvette:  Yet  we  kept  tryst  at  the  appointed  hour. 

{To  Bergamin)  :    I  hear  my  lover  still  that  time  he  said, — 

'Tvvas  just  before  the  Event, — "Nay,  I  will  wed 


32  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Most  royally  romanticly!"     I  heard, 

And,  by  our  Lady,  he  has  kept  his  word ! 
Bergamin  (exasperated)  : 

Truly?    And  you  believe  that  I  was  led.   .    .    . 
Sylvette:   Tut!    Tut!     I  knoiu!    A  hundred  times  I've  read 

That  always,  always.  Lovers'  dreams  come  true; 

That  soon  or  late,  stern  parents  such  as  you, 

Ruled  by  events  in  which  they  have  no  share. 

Give  in  the  end  their  blessing  to  the  pair. 
Pasquinot:    "Ruled  by  events."    .    .    .    No,    no,    just    let    me 

laugh ! 
Sylvette:    But  we  have  proved  it! 

Bergamin  :  If  we  told  you  half.   .    .    . 

Sylvette:  What? 
Bergamin  :  Nothing. 

Sylvette  {to  Bergamin)  :  Why,  why  this  mysterious  air? 
Bergamin:   Because   .    .    . 

{Walking  away  .)      Her  airs  are  more  than  I  can  bear. 
Pasquinot:   When  with  a  word  one  could.   .    .    . 

{He  walks  away.)  We  must  keep  mum! 

Sylvette  :   Nothing-to-say  can  easily  be  dumb ! 
Pasquinot   {explosively):    "Nothing  to  say!"     You  think,  you 
silly  lass, 

That  what  has  passed  has  not  been  brought  to  pass? 

Was  the  park  entered  by  a  fast-barred  gate? 
Bergamin:    For  girls  nowadays  do  bravoes  lie  in  wait? 
Sylvette:    Do  I  think.   .    .    .  What  is  this? 
Bergamin  {coming  back  and  marching  up  to  her)  : 

Why,  it's  enough. 

'Tis  time  you  understood  your  parents'  bluff. 

Aye,  since  the  world  was  on  its  way  set  spinning, 

'Twas  always  blonde  perukes  that  did  the  winning. 

Bartholo,  while  his  hate  consumed  his  liver, 

Must  always  bow  at  last  to  Almaviva; 

We've  triumphed  over  all  the  story  books, 

And  white  wigs  have  outwitted  blonde  perukes. 


ROMANTICS  33 

Sylvette:    But   .    .    . 

Pasquinot:   Once  upon  a  time,  papas  in  stories, 

Cassander,  Orgon,  Argante,  won  no  glories. 

You  think  real  life  is  like  your  silly  rhymes. 

They  don't  describe  papas  of  modern  times! 

Duped  become  dupers,  for  the  world  does  move. 

If  we  had  said:    "You  two  must  fall  in  love," 

Would  you  have  done  it?     No.     Our  v/ish  was  hidden. 

To  make  you  do  our  will,  it  was  forbidden! 
Sylvette:   But  then  .   .   ,  you  knew,  perhaps.  .    .   . 
Pasquinot:  You'd  best  say,  surely! 

Sylvette:   Our  meetings? 

Bergamin:  When  you  whispered  most  demurely! 

Sylvette:   The  benches?  .    .    . 

Pasquinot:  Set  expressly  for  such  comers! 

Sylvette:   The  duel.   .    .    . 
Bergamin:  Acting! 

Sylvette:  And  the  bravoes.    .    .    . 

Pasquinot:  Mummers! 

Sylvette:   My  capture.  .   .   .  Oh,  'tis  false! 
Bergamin  {fumbling  in  his  pocket)  :   False?    I'll  instruct  you! 

The  bill's  right  here — 'twas  costly  to  abduct  you! 
Sylvette  {snatching  it  from  him)  :    Give  it.    .    .    . 

{She  reads.)     "Straforel,  confidential  agent. 

Abduction  .    .   .  to  secure  betrothal.  .   .   .  Pageant." 

Ah !  "Eight  men  in  mantles,  fifteen  francs  a  cloak." 

Ah !  "Masks."  .    .    . 
Bergamin    {to   Pasquinot)  :    I'm  feared  it  was  too  soon   we 

spoke. 
Sylvette   {reading)  :    "A  sedan  chair,  pink  cushioned.   .    .    . 
Moonlight  .    .    .   mist.   .    .    . 

A  new  creation.   .    .    ." 

{She  tosses  the  bill  on  the  table  and  laughs.) 

Really,  quite  a  list! 
Pasquinot  {surprised):    She  isn't  vexed? 
Sylvette  :  A  clever  trick,  indeed  ! 


34  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

But   ...   so  much  effort  for  so  little  need ! 

Dear  sir,  do  you  believe  that  if  I  love 

My  Percinet,  'tis  for  the  web  you  wove? 
Pasquinot  :   She  takes  it  well. 

Bergamin  {to  Sylvette)  :  You  take  it  mighty  well. 

Pasquinot:   But  still  .   .   .  shall  Percinet?  .   .   . 
Sylvette  {hurriedly)  :  Oh,  never  tell.   .    .    . 

Men  are  so  silly.    .    .    .    Nothing  must  be  said ! 
Bergamin:    Plenty  of  good  sense  in  that  little  head. 

And  I  who  thought   .    .    . 

{He  looks  at  his  watch.)     The  notary's  nearly  due. 

We  must  make  ready. 

{Holding  out  his  hand  to  Sylvette)  :    Not  cross? 
Sylvette:  Cross?    With  you? 

Bergamin   {turning  back  once  more  after  he  has  started  to  leave 

the  park)  :   You  feel  no  grudge? 
Sylvette:  Ah,  set  your  mind  at  rest. 

(Pasquinot  and  Bergamin  go  out.) 
Sylvette  {with  icy  fury)  : 

I  hate  the  old  thing!     Hate  him  and  detest! 

SCENE  V 
Sylvette,  Percinet 

Percinet  {entering  hastily)  : 

Still  lingering  here?     I  understand  it  well. 

Chained  to  this  spot  where  great  events  befell, 

Adventures  all  unknown.    ... 
Sylvette  {aside,  seated  on  the  bench.  Left)  :   Unknown — I  say! 

Unknown.  .   .   . 
Percinet:  Just  there  you  almost  swooning  lay, — 

And  saw  me  conquer, — like  Amadls  then, — 

Thirty  assassins. 
Sylvette:  There  were  only  ten. 

Percinet  {coming  nearer)  : 

Dearest,  thou'rt  troubled.     At  our  secret  tryst, 


ROMANTICS  35 

Your  sapphire  eyes,  deepening  to  amethyst, — 

In  their  blue  depths  a  shadow  I  have  detected. 
Sylvette  {aside)  :    Sometimes,  his  language  seems  a  bit  affected. 
Percinet:    But  hold!     I  comprehend  what  dims  those  rays. 

A  wistful  memory  of  perfect  days!   .    .    . 

You  mourn  the  wall,  weiglited  with  vines  and  flowers, 

Witness  of  those  first  hopes  and  fears  of  ours. 

Destroyed,  that  wall?     Nay,  that  could  never  be! 

Has  Romance  lost  Verona's  balcony? 
Sylvette  {impatiently):   Ah! 
Percinet:   Does  it  not  hang  where  breezes  ever  play. 

That  moonlit  balcony; — forever  sway 

The  ladder,  mid  the  blossoms  of  that  night. 

Haloed  forever  with  supernal  light? 
Sylvette  :   Oh ! 
Percinet  {more  and  more  lyrical)  : 

The  eternal  lovers  make  the  immortal  scene. 

Our  wall,  demolished,  stands  in  living  green, 

On  which  has  grown,  a  mad  romantic  riot, — 

Flower  of  our  wondrous  love. 
Sylvette  {aside)  :  He  won't  keep  quiet! 

Percinet  {ivith  a  siiiile  full  of  promise)  : 

The  wish  that  you  an  hour  ago  expressed 

To  see  our  love  in  lyric  verses  dressed,   .    .    . 

Ah,  well,  this  poem.    ... 
Sylvette  {uncomfortably):  Well? 
Percinet:  I've  written  it. 

Sylvette:   Can  you  make  verses? 
Percinet:  Huh!    I  rhyme  a  bit! 

Here's  what  I  made  up  as  I  walked  along: 

"The  Foeman  Fathers:    Epic." 
Sylvette  :   Oh ! 

Percinet  {posing,  ready  to  declaim)  :  "First  Song:" 
Sylvette:    Oh!   .    .    . 
Percinet:   What  ails  thee? 
Sylvette:  Gladness — nerves.  ... 


36  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

{Bursting  into  tears)  I — I  believe  you 

Had  better  leave  me  to  compose   .    .    . 

{She  turns  her  back,  and  buries  her  face  in  her  handkerchief .) 
Percinet  {amazed,  for  a  motrient)  :  I  leave  you. 

{Then,  aside  J  siniVmg,  reassured.) 

This  day  of  days,  emotion's  natural. 

{He  sees  the  table.  Right,  and  the  sheet  of  paper  on  which  the 
bill  is  written.    He  sits  down.) 

I'll  just  jot  down  my  lines. 

{He  takes  the  paper,  is  about  to  write,  hut  stops,  his  pencil 
poised,  and  reads)  :  "I,  Straforel, 

Pretended   fall,   from  sword-thrust  weak  and  shifty; 

Damage  to  coat,  ten  francs:    to  self  love,  fifty." 

{Smiliftg.)     What's  this? 

{He  continues  in  a  whisper;  the  smile  disappears;  his  eyes 
bulge.) 
Sylvette  {still  sitting  on  the  bench,  drying  her  eyes)  : 

'T would  take  him  down  if  he  should  know 
I  nearly  told !    I  must  take  care ! 
Percinet  {standing  up):  Ho!  Ho! 

Sylvette  {turning  toward  him)  :  You  said?   .    .    . 
Percinet  {concealing  the  bill)  :    I?    Naught. 
Sylvette  {aside)  :  It  makes  it  all  so  shoddy! 

Percinet  {aside)  :   So  that  is  why  we  never  found  the  body! 
Sylvette  :   He  looks  so  cross.  .   .   .  Suppose — suppose  he'd  guess. 

{She  turns  toward  him,  then,  seeing  that  he  doesn't  move, 

says  coquettishly)  :    You   haven't   told   me   how   you   like 

my  dress. 

Percinet  {indifferently)  :  Blue's  not  becoming.   I  prefer  the  rose. 

Sylvette   {aside j  overcome)  :    Blue  not  becoming!     I  believe  he 

knows.      {She  looks  at  the  table.) 

The  agent's  bill  .  .   .  the  account.  ...  I  put  it  there. 
Percinet  {seeing  that  she  is  looking  for  something)  : 

What  on  earth  ails  you,  turning  cverywiiere? 
Sylvette:    Oh,  nothing. 

{Aside.)  If  the  wind  has  blown  it  down.    .    .    . 


ROMANTICS  37 

{Aloud,  fluffing  out  her  skirt.) 

Nothing.     I  was  just  prinking  out  my  gown. 

{Aside.)      If  he  has  found.    .    .    .    I'll  see. 

{Aloud.)  Hum.   .    .    .  You  meant  to  say 

Your  verses  on  our  love, 

(Percinet  starts;  she  takes  his  arm,  saying  gaily)  : 

Recite  them,  pray. 
Percinet:  Ah,  no! 
Sylvette  :  Thy  poem  of   .    .    . 

Percinet:  No! 

Sylvette  :  Come !    Recount 

The  great   .    .    . 
Percinet:  They're  poor.     They  are  of  no   .    .    . 

Sylvette  :  Account  ? 

Percinet:  I  haven't  the  account.  .    .    . 

{IVhirling  and  looking  at  her.)      Pardon,  I  am  so   .    .    . 
Sylvette :   Pardon,  but  .   .  . 
Percinet:  She  knows? 

Sylvette  :  He  knows  ? 

Both    {together)  :  You  know? 

{After  a  minute,  they  burst  out  laughing.)  Ha!  Ha! 

Percinet:  Is  it  not  droll? 
Sylvette:  Oh,  very  droll! 

Percinet:   Truly,  they  made  us  play  a  role. 
Sylvette:  A  role! 

Percinet:  Our  fathers  were  good  friends? 

Sylvette:  The  best  of  neighbors! 

Percinet:   They  might  be  kinsmen,  sharing  land  and  labors. 
Sylvette  {making  a  curtsey)  :    I  espouse  my  cousin. 
Percinet:  I  espouse  my  cousin. 

Sylvette:  Pretty! 
Percinet:  Quite  classic ! 

Sylvette:  Ordered  by  the  dozen, 

Such  marriages.     True,  for  the  loss  of  beauty, 

We  have  a  love  that's  docile, — and  a  duty! 
Percinet:   The  lands  are  joined,  by  this  our  intervention. 


38  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Sylvette  :   We  make,  we  two,  a  marriage  of  convention. 

Dead,  our  poor  little  idyll  of  the  wall ! 
Percixet:    Don't  speak  of  idylls.     Let's  forget  it  all. 
Sylvette:   "A  sweet  young  girl."    Yes,  I  am  one  of  these. 
Percinet:    I'm  the  "safe  match,"  to  please  our  families. 

And  'twas  as  Romeo,  Sylvette,  I  won  thee ! 
Sylvette  :   Now  Romeo  sheds  no  romance  upon  thee. 
Percinet:  And  do  you  think  you  still  play  Juliet's  part? 
Sylvette:   You're  acrimonious. 
Percinet:  You  are  rather  tart. 

Sylvette:    If  j^ou  were  made  ridiculous,  God  knows 

It  wasn't  my  fault. 
Percinet:  If  I  had  that  pose, 

I  didn't  pose  alone, 
Sylvette:  It's  all   .    .    .   revolting! 

Ah,  my  poor  Blue  Bird,  your  fine  plumes  are  moulting! 
Percinet  {mockingly):    Simili-capture! 
Sylvette:  Pseudo-swordsman  factor. 

Percinet:    Huh,  feigned  abduction! 
Sylvette:  Huh,  a  rescue-actor! 

Our  poetry's  a  joke,  for  all  our  trouble! 

It  grew  before  our  eyes,  a  rainbow  bubble, 

Bright-hued,  and  lovelier  than  summer  roses. 

It  bursts,  and  soapsuds  sprinkle  on  our  noses! 
Percinet:   So,  Lover  whom  I  mimicked,  silly  wretch; 

Lady,  whose  slippers  she  might  meekly  fetch, 

Shakespearean  couple,  so  divinely  wrought. 

We  have  in  common  with  you  naught,  naught! 
Sylvette:  Naught! 

Percinet:   Thinking  to  make  diviner  harmony, 

We  plajed  .   .   .  not  Shakespeare  .   .   .  but  a  parody! 
Sylvette  :   Our  nightingale  was  but  a  caged  canary ! 
Prrcinet:   Our  wall,  a  puppet  stage  by  some  vagary. 

And  when  we  met  there  every  day, — appearing 

With  bated  breath,  despairing,  hoping,  fearing, 


ROMANTICS  39 

Brave  lovers  whose  immortal  fame  would  linger, — 

Puppets  we  were,  on  the  paternal  finger! 
Sylvette:   True.     But  we'll  seem  still  sillier  if  found 

To  love  each  other  less. 
Percinet:  Let  love  abound  ! 

They  bid  us  love.     We  will  not  do  them  wrong! 
Sylvette:   Oh,  let's  adore!   ... 
Percinet:  "Adore"  is  not  too  strong! 

Sylvette:    Love  could  console  disaster  greater  far. 

Am  I  right,  Treasure? 
Percinet:  It  is  true,  my  Star! 

Sylvette:   Good  bye,  my  Soul! 

Percinet:  Good  evening.  O  my  bride! 

Sylvette:    I'll  think  of  thee,  my  Heart  ...  on  my  own  side! 
Percinet:    I,  here  on  mine.     Farewell. 
Sylvette:  Good  evening. 

{She  goes  out.) 
Percinet:  Made  a  joke! 

I,  so  deceived !    Who  comes  in  this  wide  cloak, 

Which  yet  permits  the  doublet  strange  to  show? 

This  bearded  fellow,  whom  I  do  not  know? 
(Straforel,    entering    at    these    words,    stalks    majestically 
across  the  scene.) 

SCENE  VI 
Percinet,  Straforel 
Percinet:   What  is  it? 

Straforel:  It  concerns  a  modest  sum. 

Percinet:   A  tradesman? 
Straforel:  Yes.     Run  tell  your  pa  I've  come. 

That's  a  good  boy. 
Percinet:  Your  name  before  I  go? 

Straforel:   My  name  is  Straforel. 
Percinet  {starting  back):    He — here?    Ah.  no! 

Oh,  no!    That  would  be  quite  intolerable! 


40  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Straforel  {smiling)  :   Come,  come!    You  know,  young  man? 
Percinet  {flinging  at  him  the  crumpled  bill  which  he  takes  from 
his  pocket):  Ah!     Miserable! 

'Twas  thou! 
Straforel:  Lord,  yes!    Per  Baccho,  it  was  me. 

Percinet:    Met  face  to  face!     I'd  seek  this  enemy 

To  the  world's  end! 
Straforel  :  You  find  me  fat  and  hearty 

As  could  have  been  expected  of  a  party 

You  killed.    The  other  men  you  slew  are   .    .    . 
Percinet  {rushing  at  him,  sword  in  hand)  :    Thou  shalt  see! 
Straforel   {parrying  with  his  arm,  like  a  fencing  master  who  is 
giving  a  lesson)  :    Hand  high — foot  well  advanced.     To  be 

Untaught,  at  your  age!     Time  you  were  commencing! 

{With  a  turn  of  his  wrist,  he  makes  Percinet's  sword  fly 
out  of  his  hand,  and,  returning  it  to  him  with  a  bow)  : 

What!     Learned,  so  soon,  the  elements  of  fencing? 
Percinet  {frantic,  taking  up  his  sword)  : 

I'm  gone!     I  won't  be  treated  like  a  child! 

I'll  be  avenged.     I'm  going  to  be  wild! 

Romance,  affairs,  duels,  so  fast  shall  come, 

Don  Juan,  sir,  shall  turn  over  in  his  tomb! 

I'll  kidnap  actresses!     I'll  have  my  fill.    .    . 

{He  dashes  out,  brandishing  his  sword.) 
Straforel  :  All  very  well,  ...  but  who  will  pay  my  bill  ?  .   .   . 

SCENE  VII 

Straforel,  Bergamin,  Pasquinot 

Straforel  {calling  to  Percinet,  who  is  out  of  sight) : 

Hey,  J  ou,  there !     Stop !     Here  something  else  is  shown. 
{Enter  Bergamin  and  Pasquinot,  wigs  off,  coats  torn,  as 
if  they  had  been  in  a  fight.) 
Pasquinot  {pulling  down  his  vest,  and  handing  Bergamin  his 

wig)  :  Here's  your  peruke. 
Bergamin  {out  of  breath)  :   Woof!     Here,  sir,  is  your  own. 


ROMANTICS  41 

Pasquinot:    It  must  be  plain  that  after  this  proceeding   .    .    . 

Here  is  your  stock.    .    .    . 
Bergamin  {choking  and  wheezing) '.  It's  time  you  were  conceding 

To  live  with  you  is  too  much  sacrifice 

Even  for  my  son,  sir  .   .   .  not  at  any  price. 
Pasquinot  {seeing  Sylvette,  ivho  comes  in)  : 

My  daughter!  .   .   .  Best  not  tell  her  right  away! 


SCENE  VIII 

The  Same:  Sylvette;  later,  Blaise;  the  Notary,   Witnesses, 

Violins,  and  Guests 

Sylvette  {throwing  her  arms:  about  her  father  s  neck)  : 

Papa,  I  will  not  marry  Percinet! 

{Enter  the  Witnesses  and  the  Notary,  in  their  Sunday  best.) 
Bergamin:    Notary!     Witnesses!     Plague  take  you! 
Witnesses  {aghast):    Hein? 
Notary  {with  official  dignity)  :  This  sounds  .   .   . 
Straforel  {in  the  midst  of  the  tumult,  having  picked  up  the  bill 
Percinet  flung  at  him)  : 

My  bill!     You  pay  my  bill!     It's  eighty  pounds! 

{Enter  the  guests  and  three  violins,  playing  a  minuet.) 
Bergamin    {in  a  frenzy,  hustling  them  out):    Violins!     Devil 
fetch  you! 

{The  Violins  autornatically  continue  playing  the  minuet.) 
Straforel  {impatient,  to  Bergamin)  :  My  bill  .  .  .  before  I  go. 
Pasquinot  {together)  :   Speak  to  Bergamin. 
Bergamin:  Speak  to  Pasquinot. 

Straforel  {emphasizing  the  ivords  of  the  bill,  pointing  them  out 

one  by  one  with  his  finger)  : 
Straforel  {reading)  :  "Abduction  to  secure  betrothal.  .  .  .  Rout 

Of   .    .    ." 
Bergamin:    They're  un-betrothed.     Aha,  that  let's  me  out! 

I  will  not  pay. 
Straforel  {to  Pasquinot)  :   But,  sir  .   .  . 


42  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Pasquinot:  Well,  you  are  cool! 

You  think  I'll  paj^  a  copper?    You're  a  fool! 
Bergamin  (to  whom  Blaise,  enteringj  has  whispered  something)  : 

My  boy!     He  is  gone! 
Sylvette   (overivhelmed)  :    Gone! 
Straforel  (who  has  started  back,  stops  and  looks  at  her)  : 

Come,  come ! 
Bergamin:  Run!     Stop  my  child! 

(He  goes  out,  running,  followed  by  the  Notary,  luitnesses, 
and  guests.) 
Sylvette  (trembling  with  emotioyi)  :    Gone! 
Straforel  (coTtiing  doivn,  and  ivatching  her  attentively)  : 
If  those  young  things  could  be  reconciled,  .    .    . 

Be  brought  again  together.    .    .    . 
Sylvette  (suddenly  furious):    Gone!     He  had 

The  heart  to  leave  me! 

(She  goes  out,  and  Pasquinot  follows  her.) 
Straforel  (triumphantly)  :   Straforel,  my  lad, 

To  earn  thy  eighty  pounds,  beyond  a  doubt 

This  lovers'  quarrel  must  be  straightened  out. 

(He  goes  off.     The  three  Violins  remain  in  the  middle  of  the 
scene,  still  playing  their  minuet.) 

(Curtain) 


ACT  III 

Same  setting.  One  sees  material  for  rebuilding  the  wall;  the 
foundations  are  already  laid.  Sacks  of  plaster,  wheelbarrows,  hods, 
troiuels. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  a  Mason  is  discovered,  at  work;  he 
is  sitting  on  his  heels,  his  back  to  the  audience. 

Bergamin  and  Pasquinot,  each  on  his  own  side,  inspect  the 
work. 

SCENE  I 

_  Bergamin;  Pasquinot;  a  Mason 

The  Mason  {singing  as  he  works)  :   Tra  lai  dclu.  .    .    . 
Bergamin:  Workmen  are  never  quick! 

The  Mason:    Delurio   .    .    .   delu    .     .     . 
Pasquinot  {ivatching  every  motion)  :  There  goes  a  brick! 
Bergamin  (same):    Pouf!    Slap  the  mortar! 
Pasquinot:  Paf!    Goes  the  trowel! 

The  Mason   {trilling)  :  Delurio  delurio  derowel   .    .    . 
Pasquinot  {coming  down):    Fine  voice,  but  slow! 
Bergamin  {coming  down,  aggressively  cheerful)  : 

Fine  sight  for  the  beholder ! 

A  good  bit  done ! 
Pasquinot  {touching  with  his  foot  the  rising  wall)  : 

Before  we're  one  day  older 

'Twill  stand  two  feet  above  the  turf!     O  rapture! 
Bergamin  {also  growing  poetical)  : 

Dear  wall,  my  eyes  thy  outline  will  recapture! 
Pasquinot:   What  did  you  say,  sir? 
Bergamin:  Nothing.    Not  to  you, 

{A  pause.)     After  your  dinner,  eh?    What  do  you  do? 

43 


44  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Pasquinot:    Nothing.    And  you? 
Bergamin  :  The  same. 

{A  pause.     They  bow  and  each  paces  up  and  down  on  his 
own  side.) 
Pasquinot  {stopping)  :  No  news,  sir,  of  your  son? 

Bergamin:   Not  any.     Straying  still. 
Pasquinot  (politely)  :  He  soon  will  run, — 

Thanks  to  the  ladies, — out  of  money.    Then 

He  will  return. 
Bergamin:  Thank  you. 

(They  bow  and  pro?nenade  as  before.) 
Pasquinot  (stopping)  :  The  wall  again 

Is  rising,  sir.     I  therefore  will  agree 

To  let  3'ou  come  sometimes  to  call. 
Bergamin:  Maybe 

I  will  do  you  that  honour. 
Pasquinot  (abruptly)  :  Ah,  now,  say, — 

Come  for  a  game  of  piquet? 
Bergamin  (hemming  and  hawing)  :  Ah  .   .   .  oh  .   .   .  hey  .   .   . 

I  don't  know  that  I    .    .    . 
Pasquinot:  Come,  since  I  invite. 

Bergamin:   Lord!    Say,  begs  I  besique! 
Pasquinot:  Come  on!    All  right! 

Bergamin  (going  out,  behind  him)  : 

You  owe  me  tenpence  from  last  time.    .    .    .    My  choice! 

(Turning.)     Mason,  work  well! 
Mason  (singing  with  all  his  might)  :   Tra  la! 
Pasquinot:  A  charming  voice! 

(They  go  out.) 

SCENE  n 

StrAFOREL;  later,  Sylvette 

(The  moment  they  disappear,  the  Mason  turns,  takes  off 
his  hat;  it  is  Straforel.) 
Straforel:    I  am  the  mason.     Since  the  late  event, 
Not  walls  alone  I'm  seeking  to  cement. 


ROMANTICS  45 

{He  sits  down  on  the  loiv  curbing  made  by  the  rebuilding.) 
Romance!     Young  fellows  will  pursue  that  fancy; 
Hut  one  can  guess,  not  needing  necromancy, 
He'll  come  back  wiser.     Yes,  when  youth's  at  large, 
Life  takes  the  youngster's  discipline  in  charge. 
A  wholesome  bath  of  fact  meets  those  who  roam. 
Aye,  Life  will  trim  our  little  cockerel's  comb. 
He  will  return,  trailing  his  wing  a  bit. 
I,  by  a  method  parallel  and  fit, 
Must  cure  Sylvette.     It  calls  for  all  my  arts, 
Hut,  Straforel,  thou  man  of  many  parts, 
Thou  hast  played  marquis  or  prince  or  what  may  chance, 
Been  hissed  in  half  the  provinces  of  France! 
This  ought  to  serve. 

{He  takes  from  his  mason  s  smock  a  letter  ivhich  he  slips  into 
a  hollow  tree.) 

If  you  knew  all  it  meant, 
You  would  be  grateful,  fathers. 
{Seeing  Sylvette,  who  enters.)     My  cement! 
{He  picks  up  his  hod  and  disappears  behind  the  wall.) 
(Sylvette  appears,  looking  cautiously  about  her,  then)  : 
No,  no  one! 
{She  throws  her  veil  on  the  bench  at  the  Left.) 

Does  my  letter  wait  to-day? 
An  unknown  gallant  daily  comes  this  way 
And  slips  one  in  this  lightning-riven  tree, 
Green  mail  box  Nature  painted  just  for  me. 
{She  puts  her  hand  into  the  crevice  in  the  tree.) 
Yes,  faithful  postman! 

{She  reads.)  "Sylvette,  heart  of  marble, 

Hear  the  last  love-song  this  hid  bird  shall  icarble. 
From  the  cleft  tree.     Tigress,  you  make  no  sign. 
Though  daily  letters  tell  you  hoiv  I  pine." 
What  style  he  has!     "Love  is  eternal  strife." 
{She  nervously  crumples  the  letter  in  her  hand.) 
Ah,  Mr.  Percinet  is  seeing  life, — 
He  claimed  that  right!    Well,  I  will  see  it,  too! 


46  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

I  won't  stay  here,  with  not  a  thing  to  do, 

And  bored  to  death.     Would  the  Unknown,  whose  words 

Come  from  the  branches  full  of  mating  birds, 

Could  suddenly  spring  forth !    Just  as  I  stand, 

— Not  going  for  my  hat, — I'd  take  his  hand 

And  follow,  follow!     I  must  have  Romance. 

Appear,  O  Stranger!     Even  now  perchance 

I  love  him.     Hands  outstretched,  I  stand  and  say, 

Come.   .    .    • 

Straforel  {appearing,  calls  in  a  ringing  voice)  : 

I  am  here ! 

Sylvette  :  Help !     Help  me,   Percinet ! 

{She  retreats  as  Straforel  advances.) 
j\Ian,  don't  come  near  me! 

Straforel  {ejnotionally)  :   Hostile!    And  so  moved! 
Yet  I  am  he  whose  style  you  so  approved, 
A  moment  since!     I  am  the  favored  mortal 
Whose  messages  you  sought  at  yon  green  portal, 
He  on  whose  love  you  count  to  take  your  hand 
And  lead  you  forth  to  some  idyllic  land ! 

Sylvette  {not  knoiving  tvhat  to  say,  nor  whither  to  turn)  : 
Man.    .    .    . 

Straforel:   You  take  me  for  the  mason.     Darling  jest! 
Exquisite !     I  am  Marquis — 'tis  confessed — 
Of  Astafiorquercita,  whose  persistence 
Still  seeks  to  flavor  a  too  flat  existence 
With  deeds  of  daring,  like  an  errant  knight, 
Ready  to  dream,  make  poetrj^  or  fight. 
I  could  not  penetrate  with  rhyme  or  rowel 
Your  garden,  Cold  One, — so  I  took  a  trowel  I 
{With  a  grandiose  gesture,  he  flings  his  troicel  away,  and 
siL'iftly  casting  off  his  mason's  smock,  and  doffing  his  hat, 
which    is  white   with    plaster,    he   appears   in    a   glittering 
Almaviva  costume,  blonde  peruke,   conquering  mustache.) 

Sylvette:    My  lord! 

Straforel:  From  one  called  Straforel  I  learned 


ROMANTICS  47 

Your  history.     Mad  love  within  me  burned 

For  the  poor  victim,  innocent  and  tender, 

Deceived  so  basely.     Yearning  to  defend  her.   .    .    . 
Sylvette:    Marquis!    .    .    . 
Straforel  :  Look  not  so  like  a  startled  ghost ! 

Of  his  base  part  the  rascal  dared  to  boast. 

I  killed  him. 
Sylvette:  Killed  him? 

Straforel:  With  a  single  whack! 

I've  always  had  the  headsman's  happy  knack. 
Sylvette:   My  lord  .  .  . 
Straforel:  I  understand,  heart  dear  and  lonely, 

You  wish  Romance,  at  any  price  and  only. 
Sylvette:   But,  Marquis! 

Straforel:  'Tis  decreed.    This  night  I  take  .    .    . 

Sylvette:    Oh,  sir  .    .    . 
Straforel:  Carry  you  off  for  good ! 

Sylvette  :  Sir  .   .   . 

Straforel  :  Do  not  awake, 

Dream  on,  my  heart!     Sylvette  consents!     To-night 

We  take,  together,  our  mad,  glorious  flight. 

If  your  papa  is  crazed,  delirious, 

So  much  the  worse ! 
Sylvette:  Sir  .   .   . 

Straforel:  If  they  follow  us, — 

For  they  pursue  elopers  with  severity — 

So  much  the  better ! 
Sylvette:  But,  my  lord  .   .   . 

Straforel:  In  verity. 

So  much  the  better!     Pursuers  left  behind. 

We'll  bare  our  brows  to  rain, — to  storm, — to  wind. 
Sylvette:   Sir  .    .    . 
Straforel:  To  gain   a   continent   romantic,   dark, 

Incontinently,  lady,  we'll  embark ! 
Sylvette:    Sir  .    .    . 


48  PLAYS  OF  EDMUND  ROSTAND 

Straforel:       In  that  land  where  lovers'  paths  converge, 

Happy  ^^  e'U  go  in  sackcloth  and  in  serge.    .    .    . 
Sylvette:   Ah,  but  .    .   . 
Straforel:  For  I  am  penniless!     I  feel 

You'd  scorn  a  prosperous  lover! 
Sylvette:  Y  .   .   .yes! 
Straforel:  Each  meal 

Shall  be  of  bread  .   .   .  bread  moistened  by  sweet  tears. 
Sylvette:  Yet  .    .    . 

Straforel:  Exile  brings  us  flowers  instead  of  fears. 

Sylvette:    Sir  .    .    . 
Straforel:  Misfortune  is  our  fortune.     For  our  part, 

No  hearthstone, — but  a  tent-flap,  and  thy  heart! 
Sylvette:   A  tent?   .    .    . 
Straforel:  Four  pegs,  canvas,  supporting  bars, 

Or,  if  you  choose.  Love, — nothing  but  the  stars! 
Sylvette:  Oh,  but  .    ..  . 

Straforel:  What!     Seized  with  sudden  quaking? 

Is  it  too  far,  this  journey  we  are  taking? 
So  be  it!     Hidden,  dear  Divinity, 
We'll  live  alone,  shunned  by  society! 
Intoxicating  thought ! 
Sylvette  :  Sir,  you're  misled    .    .    . 

Straforel:    People  will  pass  us  with  averted  head. 
Sylvette  :   My  God ! 
Straforel:  Conventions  for  the  vulgar  herd! 

Happy,  to  be  misprized  by  folks  absurd! 
Sylvette:    O,  sir   .    .    . 
Straforel:  No  task  shall  carry  me  away, — 

I'll  tell  my  passion  all  the  livelong  day! 
Sylvette:    Sir   .    .    . 
Straforel:  We  will  live  a  life  all  poesy. 

I  shall  have  mad  attacks  of  jealousy.   .    .    . 
Sylvette:   O,  sir  .    .    . 
Straforel:  When  jealous,  this  you  may  rely  on, 

I'm  a  jackal, — a  wolf, — a  raging  lion! 
Sylvette  {falling,  half  fainting,  on  the  bench):    Sir  .    .   . 


ROMANTICS  49 

Straforel:  If  you  break  our  bond — Lo,  I  have  said 

Immediately  you  shall  be  massacred ! 
Sylvette:   Sir  .    .    . 
Straforel:  Ha,  you  tremble? 

Sylvette:  Dear  God,  what  a  lesson! 

Straforel:    Is  blood,  by  Bacchus!  your  full  veins'  possession, 

Or  but  a  sound  that  murmurs?    What  is  this? 

Are  you  a  common  bread-and-butter  miss? 

Dare  you  attempt  this  dashing  destiny  ? 

Go  I  alone,  or  goest  thou  with  me? 
Sylvette:  O,  sir.  .  .   . 
Straforel:  I  understand.     My  voice  availed. 

And  you  are  strong.     For  the  last  time,  you've  quailed. 

I'll  come  and  seize  you  soon  .    .   .  upon  my  horse, 

Across  my  saddle  ...  ill  at  ease,  of  course ! 

But  sedan  chairs,  though  pretty  and  commodious, 

Fit  false  abductions,  and  are  therefore  odious. 
Sylvette:    But,  sir  .    .    . 
Straforel  {going  up)  :   Soon!  .    .    . 
Sylvette:  Sir  .    .    . 

Straforel:  Soon!     Ere  the  clock's  next  stroke! 

I  only  go  to  seek  a  horse,  a  cloak.  .  .  . 
Sylvette  {beside  herself  with  fright)  :  Sir! 
Straforel  {with  a  wide  gesture)  : 

Still  pursued,  from  land  to  land,  we'll  flee! 

{Coming  down  once  more.) 

O  yearning  dreams!     O  sweet  reality! 

My  soul  to  thy  soul,  "sister,"  shall  repeat, 

Soon,  and  forever! 
Sylvette  {in  a  faint  voice)  :    Forever! 
Straforel:  Oh,  how  sweet! 

You  will  live  always  with  the  cherished  being 

For  whom  you  sighed  without  so  much  as  seeing. 

And  who,  not  knowing  you,  for  you  could  burn! 

{Before  going  out,  he  looks  at  Sylvette  swooning  on   the 
bench,  and  says  softly)  : 


50  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Now,  Master  Percinet,  you  may  return! 
(He  goes  out.) 

SCENE  III 

Sylvette  (alonej  opening  her  eyes)  : 

O,  sir   .    ,    .    Marquis,    .    .    .    not  cross  the  saddle,  sir ! 

Have  pity  on  me !     I  am  not  like  her.  .   .   . 

Oh,  not  at  all!     Let  me  go  home! 

{With  a  shudder.)  To-night! 

I  am  a  bread-and-butter  miss.     O,  you  are  right! 

He's  gone!    .    .    .    Marquis!   .    .    .   Dear  God!     A  dream! 

.    .    ,    None  spoke! 
{A  pause.     She  recovers  herself.) 

I'd  rather  be  abducted  in  a  joke! 

{She  stands  up.) 

Ah,  well,  Sylvette,  my  child,  you've  had  your  chance! 

You  called  aloud,  and  loudly,  for  romance, 

And  romance  came,  and  you  were  not  content?  .    .    . 

The  stars,  the  serge,  the  exile,  and  the  tent!  .    .   . 

I  don't  want  romance  served  me  with  a  scoop. 

Oh,  just  a  taste,  like  bay  leaves  in  the  soup! 

It  is  too  much!     I  won't  cross  any  oceans. 

I'll  be  content  with  "sweet  young  girl"  emotions. 

( The  twilight  makes  vague,  violet  shadows  on  the  lawn.  She 
picks  up  the  veil  she  has  thrown  on  the  bench  and  en- 
velops her  head  and  shoulders  in  its  light  folds,  and 
dreamily)  : 

Who  knows.    .    . 

(Percinet  appears.  He  is  in  rags.  His  arm  in  its  tattered 
sleeve  hangs  limply  at  his  side.  A  hat,  with  a  soiled  and 
broken  plume,  hides  his  face  at  first.) 

SCENE   IV 

Percinet  (not  yet  seen  by  Sylvette)  : 

I  have  had  no  food  since  yesterday. 
T  reel  with  weariness.     Pride?     Manhood?     Nay, 


ROMANTICS  51 

Sillj'  intrigues  such  as  all  goodness  censures! 

They're  not  at  all  amusing, — wild  adventures. 

{He  sits  down  on  the  low  wall;  his  hat  falls  off  and  Syl- 
VETTE  sees  him.) 
Sylvette :   You ! 

{He  starts  up,  trembling.     She  looks  at  him.) 
In  such  plight!     Can  it  be? 
Percinet  {piteously)  :  Yes,     It  can. 

Sylvette  {chisping  her  hands)  :    My  God! 
Percinet:  I  look  a  little,  don't  I,  like  the  man 

The  artist  poses  as  The  Prodigal? 

{He  trembles.) 
Sylvette  :    But  he  can  scarcely  stand ! 
Percinet:  I'm  tired — that's  all. 

Sylvette  {looking  at  his  arm,  with  a  cry)  :    Wounded! 
Percinet:  You  pity  an  ingrate?    Can  half   .    .    . 

Sylvette  {severe  and  distant)  : 

Fathers  alone,  sir,  killed  the  fatted  calf ! 

(Percinet  makes  a  motion  and  the  pain  in  his  arm  forces 
a  ivry  face. — Sylvette,  in  spite  of  herself,  distressed.) 

Nevertheless   .    .    .    that  wound.    ,    .    . 
Percinet:  Don't  turn  so  white! 

The  wound  is  nothing.     It  will  be  all  right. 
Sylvette:    Sir  Vagabond,  on  great  adventures  set, 

What  did  you  do? 
Percinet:  Nothing  of  good,  Sylvette. 

{He  coughs.) 
Sylvette:  You  cough? 
Percinkt:  We  walked  on  ways  adventurous 

Night  after  night. 
Sylvette:  Night  air  is  dangerous. 

What  funny  clothes  you  have! 
Percinet:  Some  highwaymen 

Took  mine,  Sylvette,  and  gave  me  theirs  again. 
Sylvette:   Of  course  you  found  the  fortune  you  were  seeking? 
Percinet:    Let's  not  indulge,  Sylvette,  in  tactless  speaking. 


52  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Sylvette  :   Of  climbing  ladders  little  would  you  reck, 

To  balconies? 
Percinet  (aside)  :    I  nearly  broke  my  neck. 
Sylvette:   You  have  memories  of  many  a  sweet  success? 
Percinet  (aside)  :    I  nearly  smothered,  hidden  in  a  press. 
Sylvette:  You  have  won  great  wagers  since  your  quest  began? 
Percinet:   Yes.  (Aside.)  Won  a  thrashing  from  a  married  man. 
Sylvette:   Guitar  in  hand,  sung  many  a  serenade? 
Percinet    (aside)  :    Learned    to   dodge   duckings   better   than    I 

played. 
Sylvette  :  With  a  real  sword-wound  you  have  surely  thrilled  me. 
Percinet  (aside)  :   It  would  have  served  me  right  if  it  had  killed 

me. 
Sylvette:    And  you  come  home?  .    .    . 

Percinet:  Footsore,  ashamed,  in  tatters. 

Sylvette  :   But  you  found  poetry  ?    That's  all  that  matters. 
Percinet:    I  went  in  search  of  what  I  left  behind! 

O,  do  not  taunt  me!     I  adore  you! 
Sylvette:  Blind 

To  all  our  disillusionment? 
Percinet:  Let  be! 

Sylvette:   Our  fathers  did  deceive  us  dreadfully! 
Percinet:   No  matter.    Sunshine  floods  my  heart!     I  rove 

No  more. 
Sylvette:  They  feigned  hate! 

Percinet:  Did  we  two  feign  love? 

Sylvette:   The  wall,  a  Guignol, — you  said  that  to  me! 
Percinet:    I  did,  Sylvette, — but  it  was  blasphemy. 

At  least,  old  wall,  thy  puppet  stage,  'tis  certain, 

Has  fresh  green  branches  festooned  for  a  curtain, 

The  park  for  centre,  skyline  for  a  frieze; 

For  hidden  orchestra,  the  April  breeze; 

For  properties,  her  blossoms  every  one; 

Shakespeare  for  prompter,  and  for  lights,  the  sun! 

Like  marionettes,  on  finger  and  on  thumb, 

Our  fathers  made  the  actors  go  and  come, 


ROMANTICS  53 

But  on  that  mimic  stage  this  glory  shines: 

'Twas  Love  himself  who  spoke  the  puppets'  lines! 
Sylvette    {sighing)  :    But,  oh,  we  thought  we  shared  a  guilty 

love! 
Percinet  {earnestly):    We  did!     That  sweet  remorse  none  can 
remove. 

For  our  intentions  were  so  bad  we  need 

No  proof  to  make  us  criminals  indeed! 
Sylvette  {uncertainly):    Is  it  so,  truly? 
Percinet:  Truly!     Don't  you  see? 

Our  love,  Sylvette,  was  really  infamy. 

I  swear  by  all  thy  grace  and  loveliness, 

Our  love  was  wickedness,  pure   .    .    . 
Sylvette  {sitting  down  beside  him)  :   Wickedness? 

{Changing  her  tone  and  icithdrawing  a  tiny  bit)  : 

'Tis  true  .    .    .  and  yet  ...   I  still  regret  our  glory, 

For  all  our  danger  was  a  trumped-up  story. 
Percinet:   'Twas  real  to  us  who  thought  so,  on  my  oath! 
Sylvette:   No.    My  abduction  and  your  duel,  both, 

Were  false. 
Percinet:    False,  sweetheart,  was  your  fear? 

What  passes  in  your  soul  has  happened,  dear. 

To  think  yourself  abducted,  then,  may  be 

Just  as  veracious  as  plain  verity. 
Sylvette  :    No,  the  dear  memory  is  gone ;  wild  lights, 

Masks,  mantles,  music, — all  the  dazzling  sights. 

The  charm,  the  combat.     Oh,  it  is  too  cruel 

To  think  it  was  all  made  by  Straforel ! 
Percinet:   That  Night  of  Spring,  was  that  too  made  by  him? 

The  feast  of  love,  the  cup  of  youth  abrim, 

April,  who  bade  us  eat  and  drink  thereof? 

Did  he  bestar  the  starry  heaven  above? 

Did  he  make  dusk  that  dimmed  the  rose-tree's  line, 

Till  every  rose  seemed  ghostly  and  divine, 

Suspended  in  the  air,  mysterious,  dim? 

Gray  mists,  blue  shadows,  were  they  made  by  him? 


; 


/ 


54  PLJYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

His  the  sweet  languors?    Was  he  near  or  far 

In  the  pink  silver  of  the  Evening  Star? 
Sylvette:    No,  surely.   .    .    . 
Percinet:  His  deed,  there  were  flowers  a-plenty? 

That  it  was  Spring;  that  you  and  I  were  twenty; 

And  that  we  loved  each  other?     O  my  dear, 

There's  all  the  magic. 
Sylvette:  All  .    .    .   'tis  true  .    .    . 

Percinet:  A  tear? 

Can  you  forgive  the  vagabond  his  crime? 
Sylvette:   O  my  poor  dear,  I've  loved  you  all  the  time. 
Percinet:    I  see  again  thy  brow,  the  curls  that  cling, 

Thy  fragrant  youth,  like  the  first  breath  of  Spring, 

One  with,  yet  sweeter  than,  the  wind-kissed  clover. 

No  angel  can  claim  kinship  with  thy  lover! 

(He  toys  with  Sylvette's  veil.) 

Oh,  let  me  kiss  thy  veil's  hem.     'Tis  so  blest 

That  on  thy  lovely  forehead  it  can  rest. 

Ah,  how  this  tissue  cools  my  lips!     O  fool. 

That  left  this  muslin  veil,  so  sweet,  so  cool, 

Forsaking  this  for  silks  and  velvets  drabbled. 
Sylvette:   What  silks?    What  velvets? 
Percinet  (hastily)  :     Nothing!    Oh,  I  babbled! 

My  little  girl  in  dotted  muslin,  pray 

Let  me  but  touch   .    .    . 
Sylvette:  It's  linon,  Percinet. 

Percinet  (kneeling)  :   Trembling,  I  bend  to  kiss  it,  yet  I  feel 

My  lips  might  soil  it,  knowing  as  I  kneel, 

O  airy  linon. 

Soft  enfolding  her, 
All  bliss  to  win,  on 

Holding  her; 

Ah,  linon  airy. 

Fragrant,   fragile  thing. 
Did  some  good  fairy 

Lend  her  wing: 


ROMANTICS  55 

Ah,  airy  linon, 

Scarce  the  evening  dew 
Dares  to  begin  on 

Starring  you ; 

Ah,  linon  airy, 

Lightly   shelter  her, 
Dear  Virgin  Mary 

Gossamer. 

O  airy  linon, 

Light  as  maiden  fancy, 
To  weave  and  spin  on 

Necromancy ; 

Ah,  linon  airy. 

Floating  flame  of  snow, 
Fancies  vary; 

Love  must  grow. 

O  airy  linon, 

Her  counterpart, 
White  rose  to  pin  on 

My  sweetheart. 

Sylvette  {in  his  arms)  :   See,  poetry  is  in  the  hearts  of  lovers; 

Not  in  adventures  only,  nor  for  rovers. 
Percinet:    'Tis  true;  for  my  adventures  were  authentic. 

And,  O  Sylvette,  they  weren't  at  all  poetic.    .    .    . 
Sylvette:    And  those  our  crafty  fathers  made  arise, 

They  were  poetic,  though  they  were  just  lies. 
Percinet:    They  built  the  framework,  but  our  spirits  know 

On  a  false  trellis  still  true  flowers  may  grow. 
Sylvette:    Poetry,  love,  but  we  were  crazy,  dear. 

To  seek  it  elsewhere.     It  was  always  here ! 

(Straforel  appears,  cnnducting  the  tzvo  fathers,  and  shows 
them  Sylvette  and  Percinet  in  each  other's  arms.) 


56  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

SCENE  V 

The  same.    Straforel;  Bergamin  ;  Pasquinot 

Straforel  :   They're  re-betrothed !  .    .    . 
Bergamin  :  My  son ! 

Straforel  :  So  pay  my  bill. 

Pasquinot  {to  his  daughter)  :   Thou  lovest  him  anew? 
Sylvette  :  Yes. 

Pasquinot:  Flighty  still! 

Straforel  {to  Bergamin)  :    Do  I  get  my  money? 
Bergamin  :  That  you  do,  my  master. 

Sylvette   {startled,  trembling)  : 

That  voice   ...    it  is — it  is — Marquis  of  Asta.    .    .    . 
Straforel   {bowing)  :    Fiorquercita?     It  was  I,  dear  Miss, 

I,  Straforel.     Forgive  my  zeal  in  this. 

There's  this  advantage,  surely,  in  my  venture ; 

— You  missed  the  hardships  of  a  real  adventure. 

Romantic  life,  as  I  have  let  you  know  it. 

With  its  real  pangs,  you  willingly  forego  it. 

Doubtless  you  could    .    .    . 

{He  indicates  Percinet)  like  this  young  citizen. 

Have  seen  real  life,  but  girls  aren't  just  like  men, 

The  course  might  be  a  little  rough  to  go, 

So  I  devised  a  magic  lantern  show. 
Percinet:  What's  this? 

Sylvette  {hastily):    Nothing.     I  love  thee!    .    .    . 
Bergamin   {pointing  to  the  half-built  icall)  :    Let  it  fall 

To-morrow,  with  one  blow,  that  rising  wall ! 
Pasquinot:    Dividing  walls  are  wholly  reprehensible. 
Straforel:    No,  build  the  wall.    The  wall  is  indispensable! 
Sylvette   {gathering  all  the  actors  around  her)  : 

And  now  we  four  and  Master  Straforel 

Make  for  an  Epilogue  a  rare  rondel. 

{She  comes  down  to  the  audience.) 
Sylvette:    Dainty  dresses  and  rippling  rhymes, 

And  Lo\c,  with  flute  and  dart  and  bow.    .    .    . 


ROMANTICS  57 

Bergamin:   Flowery  foolishness,  all  Cwc  know.    .    .    . 
Pasquinot:    Sudden  tempests   .    .    .    but  stilled  betimes.    .    .    . 
Straforel:    Ringing  rowels  and  clanging  chimes, 

A  good,  kind  bravo  abroad  doth  go.    .    ... 
Sylvette:    Dainty  dresses  and  rippling  rhymes, 

And  Love  with  flute  and  dart  and  bow.  .    .    . 
Percinet:    Home,  a  harbor  from  hateful  times; 

A  little  music,  a  scene  Watteau, 

A  pretty  playlet,  not  long  nor  slow; 

Sires, — lovers, — a  wall  where  sweet-brier  climbs.  .    .    . 
Sylvette  {with  a  curtsey)  :    Dainty  dresses  and  rippling  rhymes. 

( Curtain  ) 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY 

A  Play  in  Four  Acts 
In  Verse 


TO 

Madam  Sarah  Bernhardt 

May  I  not  dedicate  this  Flay. 

— E.  Rostand. 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY 


LIST  OF  CHARACTERS 

Melissinde,  Princess  of  the  East,  Countess  of  Tripoli. 

Kertrand  of  Allamanon,  Chevalier  and  Provencial  Trouba- 
dour. 

JoFFROY  RuDEL,  Prince  of  Blaye,  Troubadour  of  Aqtiitaine. 

Fra  Trophimus,  Chaplain  to  the  Prince. 

Erasmus,  his  Physician. 

Squarciafico,  Genoese  Merchant. 

The  Chevalier  in  Emerald  Mail,  adventurer  in  the  service 
of  Emperor  Manuel  Comnenus. 

SoRlSMONDE,  Maid  of  Honour  to  Melissinde. 

The  Master  of  the  Ship. 

Trobaldo. 

Francois,  Pegofat,  Bruno,  Bistagne,  Sailors. 

Juan,  the  Portingalais. 

Marrias,  of  Aiguss  Mortes. 

The  Pilot. 

The  First  Pilgrim. 

Second  Pilgrim. 

Third  Pilgrim. 

Fourth  Pilgrim. 

Fifth  Pilgrim. 

NicoLOSE,  Servant  to  Squarciafico. 

A  Cabin  Boy,  Sailors,  Musicians,  and  Slaves. 

XII  Century 


FIRST   ACT 

The  deck  of  a  ship  which  has  evidently  had  a  long  and  terrible 
voyage.  One  sees  that  there  have  been  tempests;  sails  are  tat- 
tered,  yards  broken,  rigging  tangled;  a  mended  mainmast  leans 
perilously. 

One  sees  that  there  has  been  a  battle;  bloodstains;  scattered 
weapons. 

Night  is  waning.     Gray,  translucent  shadows;  a  paling  sky. 

Stars  that  disappear.  A  violet  sea,  in  wreaths  of  mist.  An 
horizon  lost  in  fog. 

During  the  Act,  insensibly  Light  comes. 

SCENE    I 

The  Mariners:  Bruno,  Bistagne,  Marrias,  Pegofat, 
Trobaldo,  Francois,  etc.;  the  Pilot;  later,  the  Coxswain,  and 
Fra  Trophimus. 

{When  the  curtain  rises  one  may  see  lying  or  sitting  in  every 
position.  Mariners  with  tragic  faces  and  of  ghastly  appear- 
ance; pale,  fleshless;  they  seem  overwhelmed  with  iveariness 
and  privation.  Some  of  them  bear  wounds,  which  have 
been  rudely  bound  up  ivith  rags.  Two  of  their  number,  in 
the  background,  near  the  deck-rail,  balance  between  them, 
by  feet  and  head,  a  third,  inert.) 

The  Two  Mariners,  Pegofat  and  Bruno  {in  the  background)  : 

One  .    .    .  two  .    .    .  three! 
{They   heave  the  body   over   the   rail.      One   hears  a  thud  as   it 

strikes  the  water.) 
Pegofat:  Done! 

Bruno:  Another  mate  at  sea, 

Who  will  not  ride  thy  roadstead,  Tripoli  I 
Pegofat  {taking  off  his  bonnet  to  the  vanished  comrade)  : 
Good-bye,  lad. 

65 


66  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Bruno  (looking  out  to  sea)  :    Soon  the  dawn.    The  East  shines 

redly. 
Francois    {luaking  and  stretching):    Who   was   thrown   over- 
board ? 
Bruno:  Audriu  the  Deadly. 

Francois:   Accursed  fever! 

{He  looks  at  the  devastation  about  him.) 

Waves  have  hit  her  hard. 
BiSTAGNE   {raising  his  head)  :  Aye,  and  the  wind.     Sheets  torn 

away. 
Bruno:  And  yard! 

Francois  :   The  mast  leans,  parlous.     Better  were  it  cleft. 
BiSTAGNE :    Oh,   I  want  food! 

Bruno:  Naught  in  the  hold  is  left. 

Francois  {trying  to  stand)  :   Ai!  Ai!  .    .    .  my  wound! 

{He  reels.)  Ho!     One  can  scarcely  stand. 

If  we  should  meet  a  new  barbarian  band 

We  would  lack  fighting  men. 
Bruno:  We  would  not  lack! 

We  must  arrive!     Nothing  can  hold  us  back! 

Ill,  ill  shall  fare  the  sloop  that  would  delay. 
BiSTAGNE :    When  shall  we  sail  the  Sarracenic  Bay? 
The  Pilot:   Soon,  as  I  hope.     The  sea  has  been  full  wroth! 

O  for  the  needle  that  can  tell  the  North, 

The  stone  one  rubs  it  with ! 
BiSTAGNE    {shrugging  his  shoulders)'.    A  silly  fable! 
The  Pilot:    Nay,  they  exist,   ...    in  gourds,  to  keep  them 
stable. 

One  rubs;  the  iron  is  enamoured  of  the  stone; 

The  needle  turns  due  North.     The  thing  is  known. 
All  the  Mariners:    Ha-ha!     He  is  daft!     A  needle!     Hear 

him  tell! 
Pegofat:    Forget  the  needle!     Row  our  cockle  shell! 

Hold  I   .    .    .     Our  woes  end  !     The  weather  is  less  curst. 
Bruno:   Woes  end,  eh?    Docs  our  hunger? 
Francois:  And  our  thirst? 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  A IV AY  67 

Bistagne:    Aye,  we  have  suffered! 

Pegofat:  Heaven  will  hear  our  call. 

Trobaldo  {appearing  astride  a  yard)  :  But  what  if  she  were  ugly 

after  all? 
All  the  Mariners:   Oh,  no!     She  is  beautiful!     She  is! 
Trobaldo:  Now  by  our  Lord, 

She  needs  must  be,  Bistagne! 
Bistagne:  And,  by  my  word, 

More  than  a  little!     For  our  voyage  is  full 

Of  hardships! 
Bruno:  So,  She  must  be  beautiful! 

All:   She  is!     She  is! 
Marrias  :  I  am  sure  1 

A  Rower:  It  must  be  so! 

'Tis  not  to  reach   a  monster  that   I   row! 
Pegofat  {laughing)  :  Rowing,  he  thinks  of  Her! 
The  Rower:  The  night  long,  yes! 

Bistagne:    Becalm.     She's  always  pretty, — a  princess! 
The  Pilot  {shrugging  his  shoulders)  :    Your  talk  is  all  of  her. 
Pegofat  :  One  is  so  weary ; 

Lo,  speak  of  Her,  and  one  is  almost  cheery! 
The  Pilot:   Will  she  be  shown  to  you,  this  Faire  Ladye? 
Bruno:   The  Prince  has  promised  it.    Our  eyes  shall  see; 

If  we  arrive  through  all  these  boisterous  seas, 

He'll  tell  her  we  have  brought  him  to  her  knees. 
The  Pilot:   Think  you  she'll  have  a  word  for  rovers  rough? 
Pegofat:    No.     We  shall  see  her.     That  is  meed  enough. 

Oh,  she  is  sung  through  all  of  Christendom. 
A  Cabin  Boy:    Her  eyes  .    .    . 

The  Pilot  {turning  to  him)  :    Thou  wouldst  see  her  eyes? 
The  Cabin  Boy:  That's  why  I've  come. 

Pegofat:    The  Master! 

{The    Skipper    has    entered    and    has    been    listening    for    a 
moment.) 
The  Master:  It  behooves  us  first  t'  arrive, 

And  that  Joffroy  Rudel,  our  Prince,  survive! 


68  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  Mariners:   It  yet  goes  ill?    Alas!    Poor  Prince! 
Bruno:  Woe's  me! 

The  Master:    They  keep  the  castle  always  closed,  ye  see; 

Watched  by  his  friends,  belike  he's  slumbering. 
Pegofat:    He  sang  at  sundown. 
Bistagne:  Troth,  a  wondrous  thing, 

How  easily  he  makes  his  lover's  lays. 
Francois:   What  do  you  call  that  thing  whereon  he  plays? 
The  Pilot  {with  a  learned  air)  :   'Tis  called  a  lyre. 
Francois:  A  lyre?    Our  Lady  knows 

It  has  a  pretty  sound. 
Bistagne:  Helps  when  one  rows! 

Pegofat:  When  sails  are  spread,  it  gives  them  breath,  that  lyre! 
The  Coxswain:    Our  Liege's  almoner! 
Pegofat:  Hist!    Yes,  the  Friar! 

(Fra  Trophimus,  his  goiun  mended  and  full  of  threadbare 
places  and  holes,  leaves  the  Prince's  cabin,  looks  at  the  sky, 
and  kneels  in  the  background.) 
Bruno:    An  easy  priest! 

Francois:  Simple,  and  brave  beside. 

Bistagne:    I  would  all  Brothers  cut  their  sleeves  as  wide! 
The  Master:   The  lanthorns  of  the  sky  grow  dim.    There  stirs 

A  breath  ... 
Bistagne:  Dawn  comes  .    .   . 

Fra  Trophimus    {kneeling) :  Virgin   of  mariners, 

Who  makest  the  fierce  sea  gentle  in  the  dawn. 

Guide  thou  our  ship  to  port  like  some  great  swan ; 

And,  Lady,  if  he  live,  our  Sire  Rudel 

Vows  to  Tortosa's  shrine,  thy  grace  to  tell, 

A  ship  like  this  that  brought  us  to  those  shores, — 

A  silver  ship  with  helm  and  sails  and  oars. 
The  Pilot:  Pouh!   All  that  .  .  .  huh!    Had  I  that  needle  .  .  . 
Bistagne:  Beast 

In  any  case,  he  does  no  harm,  that  priest! 

(Erasmus  comes  out  in  his  turn.    His  doctor's  robe  in  rags; 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR   AWAY  69 

he  wears  no  wig;  his  expression   is  piteous.      The  sailors 

chuckle.) 
Bruno:    Now  our  physician  shows  again  his  phiz. 
Francois:    The  medico! 
Bistagne:  Weak  .   .   . 

Trobaldo  {shrugging  his  shoulders)  :   As  his  physic  is. 

SCENE  II 

Fra  Trophimus;  Erasmus;  The  Mariners  in  the  background. 

Fra  Trophimus  {going  to  Erasmus)  :   Master,  the  sick  man? 
Erasmus:  Always  worse.     He  sleeps, 

While  Messire  Bertrand  constant  vigil  keeps. 

{Looking  toivard  the  horizon) 

Fra  Trophimus,  the  best  one  can  discern,  ah? 

Is  fog? 

{Furiously)  I,  I,  physician  of  Salerna, 

What  do  I  mid  such  perils?     Answer,  thou. 

— My  school  my  books,  my  hearth,  where  are  they  now? 

The  sea  winds  tear  my  robe.     If  sails  grow  big, 

Those  same  gusts  ravish  from  me  every  wig! 
Fra  Trophimus:   The  prince?  .    .   . 
Erasmus:  Prince  of  all  triflers  born, 

Why  need  he  set  forth  on  a  quest  forlorn? 

I  joined  the  prince's  household, — but  when  he, 

Gentle  and  feeble,  yet  lived  tranquilly; — 

Beneath  a  roof,  sir,  not  beneath  a  mast. 

I  find  this  voyage  bitter,  first  and  last. 

{He  paces  the  deck,  with  increasing  rage.) 

Now  may  hell  roast  and  may  the  devil  impale 

The  cursed  pilgrims  who  first  brought  the  tale! 

Coming  from  Antioch ;  they  reached  the  palace 

At  evening  as  we  supped.     By  Satan's  malice! 

— Th'  equerry  carved  a  turkey,  knife  in  hand — 

They  were  the  first  who  told  of  Melissinde! 

They  sang,  with  zeal  wholly  importunate, 


70  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

This  child  of  Hodierne  and  Raymond  the  Great; 

Deliriously  they  sang  this  flower  of  Asia; — 

One  rolling  eye  is  printed  past  erasure 

Upon  my  brain.     Neither  to  hold  nor  bind, 

The  prince,  this  poet,  son  of  shade  and  wind, 

Uprising  straight,  proclaimed  her  for  his  She. 

He  serves  her  since  with  all  fidelity; 

Two  years,  exalting  her  in  speech  and  song. 

His  frame  grew  weaker  as  his  love  grew  strong. 

At  last, — set  sail,  knowing  his  end  was  near, 

Lest  he  see  Death,  not  having  seen  his  dear! 
Fra  Trophimus:  Master  Erasmus   .    .    . 
Erasmus:  Foam  will  be  his  shroud! 

And  Sir  Bertrand,  when  all  men  disallowed, 

All  those  about  Rudel, — this  crazy  thing, 

He  praised  his  love,  approved  his  offering. 

Avowed  this  venture  very  fair  and  fit 

And  must  embark,  bearing  his  share  in  it! 

And  you,  a  priest,  shipped  with  this  crazy  horde! 

One  comprehends  how  I  could  be  on  board, 

But  you,  the  prince's  almoner,  I  charge 

Have  nonnc  business  on  this  fatal  barge. 

Your  master's  the  sole  son  of  chivalrj' 

Who  seeks  not  Syria  'neath  the  Cross.     Not  he ! 

Light  love  songs  to  the  lute  tell  all  his  soul! 

The  Holy  Sepulchre  is  not  his  goal ! 
Fra  Trophimus:  Who  knows  God's  secret  end,  His  hid  design? 
Erasmus:   We  seek  a  lady's  eyes,  in  Palestine. 
Fra  Trophimus:    Be  sure  the  Lord  has  pleasure  in  this  thing. 
Erasmus:    What  can  the  Lord  gain?     Tell  me! 
Fra  Trophimus:  Everything. 

Erasmus:    Oh! 
Era  Trophimus:    For  He  gains  all,  or  so  I  understand, 

By  any  deed  disinterested,  grand. 

Not  less  His  own  than  the  Crusade  will  prove, 

Or  so  I  think,  this  beautiful,  pure  love. 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  A IV AY  71 

Erasmus:   You'd  liken  then  this  rash  adventure,  sir, 

To  rescue  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre? 
Fra  Trophimus:    Is  His  desire  just  that  His  tomb  be  free? 

Were  that  His  very  care,  resistlessly 

He'd  drive  the  infidel, — believe  this  thing, — 

Forth  on  the  great  sweep  of  an  angel's  wing. 

But  no.     He  wanted  to  set  free  His  own, 

Who  lived,  proud,  idle,  drowsy  and  alone. 

Selfish,  lukewarm,  the  slaves  of  circumstances, 

And  set  them  splendid,  singing,  midst  the  lances, 

Drunk  with  devotion,  glad  to  die  in  deed. 

In  self-forgetfulness,  the  soul's  chief  need! 
Erasmus:    So,  what  the  Prince  does  for  his  ladye's  dole?  .    .    . 
Era  Trophimus:    Is  very  wholesome  for  the  Prince's  soul. 

For  it  was  dead  in  him,  gay,  idle,  roving; 

It  wakes  within  him,  suffering,  willing,  loving. 

By  such  means  comes,  I  think  th'  important  part — 

That  in  man's  body  beat  an  ardent  heart. 

The  prince's  lesser  life  had  hemmed  him  round; 

By  petty  vices  petty  courts  are  bound. 

Doubt  not,  his  quest  obeys  more  worthy  laws. 

All  true  love's  travail  serves  High  Heaven's  cause. 
Erasmus:    Mayhap  .   .    . 

Fra  Trophimus  {lowering  his  voice):  Look  only!     Rowers  in 
their  banks. 

The  mariners, — what  w^ere  they?     Reckless  ranks 

Of  fighting  seamen.    Let  your  mind  speak  true. 

It  was  a  pirate  ship,  a  robber  crew! 

But  they  were  hired,  as  oft  thou  knowst  it  fares, 

— Travellers  to  the  Levant  must  hire  Corsairs, — 

To  take  him  to  his  Princess  far  away. 

What  time  the  Captain  signed  the  pact,  I  say 

Her  name  was  less  than  nothing  to  these  rovers. 

Behold,  now,  all  the  sailors  are  her  lovers! 
Erasmus:    You  are  pleased? 
Era  Trophimus:  Enchanted!     An  ennobled  galley 


72  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Makes,  not  for  hire,  but  for  a  dream,  this  sally. 

They  hope  to  see  Her  when  their  task  is  done, 

And  their  ferocities  drop  one  by  one; — 

The  Prince's  Lady,  Lady  of  all  those; 

One  ends  by  loving  that  toward  which  one  rows! 

They'd  have  the  Prince  attain  his  heart's  desire. 

His  love  enchants  them,  thing  of  wind  and  fire. 

For,  mark  you,  little  spirits  love  the  grand 

And  feel  the  force  they  cannot  understand. 

This  noble  folly  which  none  comprehends 

Shines  out,  all  clear,  to  these  his  simple  friends. 
Erasmus:   The  pilot  thinks  the  Prince  is  lunatic. 
Fra  Trophimus:    Less  simple,  he. 
Erasmus:  What  good?    What?    There  I  stick. 
Fra  Trophimus:  Much.     For  each  ray  of  the  ideal  that  enters 

Man's  soul  wrest  ground  from  evil  at  its  centres. 

Each  noble  aim  a  nobler  aim  will  bear. 

No  dream  gives  place  to  any  dream  less  fair. 

The  heart,  expanding,  has  more  room  for  truth. 

The  words  I  speak  astonish  you,  in  sooth? 

Fm  partisan  of  all  adventure  high. 

What  were  the  Argonauts,  our  ship  being  nigh? 

This  epic-lyric  ship?     Ah,  ever  faster 

Urge  on,  its  sails  song-filled,  a  poet  master, 

With  starving  pirates,  who  will  not  rebel, 

To  a  pure,  beautiful,  far  damozel, 

Having  no  other  hope  than  this  emprise, 

To  see  Her  for  one  moment,  ere  he  dies. 

Master,  indifference  is  the  soul's  one  chasm 

And  the  sole  virtue  .    .    . 
Erasmus:  What? 

Fra  Trophimus:  Enthusiasm! 

(lie  goes  bock.) 
Erasmus:    Ho — hum!     It's  droll  at  least,  and  it  may  be  .    .    . 

{After  reflection)  That  Friar  will  be  tried  for  heresy. 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  A IV AY  73 

(Bertrand,   whose  garments,   like   the   others,   are   in   rags, 
comes  from  the  ship's  castle.) 
Bertrand  {to  Erasmus)  :  The  Prince  awakes. 
Erasmus:  Sir,  you  do  well  to  tell  me, 

{He  re-enters  the  cabin.) 

SCENE  III 

Fra  Trophimus;   Bertrand;   The   Mariners 

The  Master   {to  Pegofat,  who  has  dropped  his  oar)  :    Row, 

then! 
Pegofat:    Three  days,  I've  rowed  with  nothing  in  my  belly. 

I  can  no  more. 
Bruno  {his  voice  rattling  in  his  throat)  :  I  thirst!     I  .    .    . 
Fra  Trophimus  {to  Bertrand)  :    My  son,  it  is  heart-warming 

Thy  love  for  our  poor  Prince.     Thy  heart  is  charming. 
Bertrand:    My  heart  is  weak.     It  has  no  barriers  grim. 

A  hero  passes  and  I  follow  him ! 

Were  I  Proven9al,  were  I  troubadour, 

Seeing  such  love,  if  I  did  not  adore? 

{To  the  sailors) 

Courage,  my  lads!     Advance,  and  still  advance! 

{To  Fra  Trophimus) 

I  never  knew  contentment  in  Provence. 

I  ate  my  heart  out,  playing  games  with  words 

Chiselled  like  gems,  or  made  to  fiy  like  birds. 

I  tired  of  life  whose  gravest  task  was  naught, — 

Polish  a  thumb  nail,  juggle  with  a  thought. 

Some  use  at  last  my  light  life  may  evince. 
Fra  Trophimus:    Brave   heart,    thy  care   for  this   our   dying 

Prince   .    .    . 
Bertrand:    I  am  a  poet.    All  this  love  I  show  him 

May  be  but  the  seduction  of  a  poem. 
Fra  Trophimus:    What  matter?     Thou  wert  brave.     Son,  it 
is  ill, 

If  thou  dost  nobly,  to  deny  it  still ! 


74  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Bertrand:    My  holj^  friend,  thy  praise  constraineth  me, 

For  in  my  heart  is  strange  diversity! 

Capable  .    .    .  yes  ...  of  action,  of  devotion. 

Still  at  the  mercy  of  each  new  emotion. 

It  frights  me,  Father,  that  I  left  the  rest 

So  easily  for  this  alluring  quest. 

Less  quick  to  good,  mayhap  to  ill  more  slow! 

Praise  not  the  moods  that  toss  me  to  and  fro. 

I  am  a  poet. 
A  Mariner  (lying  prone  zvhile  the  Master  tries  to  make  him 

get  tip)  :  I  can  no  more! 
The  Master  {to  Bertrand)  :  Messire, 

To  light  new  courage,  kindle  you  the  fire. 

{The  7nariners  drag  themselves  toward  Bertrand.) 
Pegofat:    I  starve.  Sir  Bertrand.    Tell  me  of  her  hair. 
Bruno:    My  lord,  I  thirst.     Her  lovely  eyes  declare. 
Francois  :   Thou  hast  so  often  during  our  distress 

Told  us  the  beauty  of  the  far  Princess! 

{They  are  all  about  him,  foredone,  supplicating.) 
Bertrand:    Oh,  well,  good  seamen,  I  declare 
In  one  more  song  the  magic  deep; 

The  sun  laughs  in  her  yellow  hair. 

And  in  her  eyes  the  moonbeams  sleep. 

If  her  sweet  features  be  displayed. 

Between  the  fountain  of  her  tresses, 
All  lovers  then  are  renegade, 

Forsaken  all  mistresses. 

I  know  not  what  of  secret  grace 

Is  hers  alone  and  wholly  hers, 
— Grace  of  the  saints,  which  yet  has  space 

For  grace  of  sorcerers. 

Her  air  is  gentle,  subtle,  light ; 

Her  charm,  compounded  of  all  powers; 
Her  voice,  a  fountain  in  its  flight; 

Her  attitudes,  all  flowers. 


I 


THE  PRINCESS  EAR  AWAY  75 

Such  in  her  loveliness  is  She, 

The  French  maid  who  is  Moabite, 
Fair  Melissinde  of  Tripoli, 

In  her  great  palace  built  of  light. 

Such  is  the  Princess  we  shall  see, 

If  it  be  sooth  the  pilgrims  tell 
Who  wander  still  from  sea  to  sea 

With  tinkling  shallop  shell: 

{During  these  verses,  the  mariners,  one  at  a  time,  and  little 
by  little,  rise,  refreshed.) 

Pegofat:    Hein?    How  he  talks!    Can't  make  it  out  in  full, 

But  it  is  plain  that  She  is  beautiful. 
Bruno:    I  am  better. 

(They  all  go  to  luork.) 
Francois   {rowing):    Hardil\  ! 
The  Pilot:  P'ools,  by  my  word! 

This  comes  of  having  troubadours  aboard. 
Bertrand:    Rudel  and  I,  thou  sayst,  make  madmen  thus? 

Yet  if  they  labour  on,  'tis  grace  to  us. 

Aboard  each  ship,  if  waves  and  wreckage  strow  it. 

One  needs,  before  a  pilot's  self,  a  poet. 
Pegofat  {jeering  at  the  Pilot)  :   Above  all,  when  the  pilot  loves 

to  shift. 
Bertrand:    When  will  the  mist  upon  the  water  lift? 
The  Coxswain:   Wait  for  the  sun. 
Bruno  {pointing  to  the  Pilot)  :    He  rages! 
The  Pilot:  Huh!    There  might  be  some  reliance 

Had  I  my  needle! 
Pegofat:  Oh,  a  fig  for  science! 

It  wouldn't  tell  you  much.     To  know  the  North 

Would  not  drive  weariness  and  sickness  forth. 
Bruno:    It  wouldn't  m.ake  the  victuals  everlasting. 
Francois:   Or  make  a  sailor  drunk  while  he  was  fasting. 
Bist.agne:    Nor  show  the  homesick  men  their  native  skies. 


76  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  RO STAND 

Trobaldo  :    Nor  make  appear  before  their  dazzled  eyes 

The  fabled  country  full  of  plenteousness. 
Pegofat:    Nor  tell  them  any  more  of  the  Princess. 
Fra  Trophimus:    They  bring  the  Prince. 

(JoFFROY  RuDEL,  his  face  terribly  ernaciated,  his  body  lost, 
so  thin  it  is,  in  his  worn  robes,  is  carried  on  a  pallet.     He 
is  wracked  luith  fever  and  his  eyes  shine  unnaturally.) 
Bertrand:  Ye  rowers,  set  her  flying! 

JoFFROY  RuDEL   {in  feeble  voice)  : 

As  we  draw  near,  I  feel  the  more  I  am  dying. 

SCENE  IV 
The  Same.     Joffroy  Rudel 

Joffroy:    Day,  I  salute  thee  as  thou  dost  appear!    .    .    . 

Ere  thou  hast  died,  shall  1  have  seen  my  Dear? 

O  honied  name,  O  Princess  of  the  East, 

O  Melissinde !     An  Emperor  has  not  ceased 

To  woo  thee  from  his  proud  Constantinople. 

Betwixt  us  lies  the  ocean  green  and  opal. 

O  Flower  supreme  of  glorious  Baldwin's  blood, 

Ah,  shall  I  not  behold,  beyond  its  flood. 

Its  golden  sands,  its  silver  tides  complaining, 

That  happy  Tripoli  where  thou  art  reigning? 

Only  the  fog  builds,  'gainst  the  horizon  pale, 

A  cloudy  city.     Prison,  floating  gaol, 

Am  I  to  die  not  having  even  breathed 

The  wind  of  hope  that  round  her  shores  has  wreathed? 

Alas!  nor  recognize  across  the  seas 

The  fragrant  breath  of  Moab's  myrtle  trees? 
Pilot:   Wait!     By  the  Lord,  the  fog  less  sullen  seems! 
Joffroy:  To  see  her  ere  I  die!    Then  death,  and  dreams! 
Pegofat:    You'll  see  her. 
Joffroy:  Grace,  rude  voice  with  valiant  chime! 

What  ails  me?    God!     Despair?    p^or  the  first  time 

Shall  I  despair,  to-day?     O  dear  my  Ladj  ! 

My  soul  would  fly!     Rowers,  row  fast  and  steady! 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  77 

Bruno:   You'll  see  her. 
•Joffroy:  Bistagne,  Pegofat,  Bruno, 

Francois,  tlie  Victualler,  Calker  Trobaldo, 

Ye  who  have  suffered  pains  of  every  sort 

For  me, — Juan  Portingalais,  Marrias  of  Aigues-Mortes, 

Grimoart,     .     .     .     Luke,     .     .     .     grace,  and  grace  to  all 
the  rest. 
Pegofat:    Let  be.    We're  proud.    Tlu's  voyage  is  our  best. 
Bruno:   An  illustrious  voyage! 
Francois:  So  I  hold! 

Joffroy:   Ali,  yes;  you  bear  not  Ca-sar  and  his  gold, 

But  Rudel  and  his  love  illustrious. 
Fra  Trophimus   {approaching)  :    Hope  on,  my  son. 
Joffroy  (smiling  faintly)  :    Greeting,  Saint  Trophimus! 

(Turning  to  Erasmus.) 

Lacking  your  robe  and  wig  and  such  disguise. 

Doctor,  I  love  to  see  you  look  less  wise. 
Erasmus:    Monseigneur  .    .    . 
Joffroy  (holding  out  his  hand)  :   Ah,  no  offense! 

(To  Bertrand)  Draw  near,  sweet  friend, 

Generous  to  follow  to  my  journey's  end. 

Brother  more  brotherly  than  flesh  and  blood. 

All  thought  me  mad ;  you  shared  my  every  mood ! 

Ah,  I  must  die  afar.     My  sun  is  set. 
Bertrand:   Regret  it  not.   .    .    . 
Joffroy:  Nay,  I  have  no  regret! 

Hearth,  kindred,  emerald  Aquitaine,  Oh,  nay! 

Dying,  I  love  my  Princess  far  away. 
Erasmus:   The  cause  of  all  our  ills. 
Joffroy:  Most  blest  is  She. 

I  love  great  hopes,  dreams  of  infinity. 

Nothing  I  envy  save  Icarus'  fate. 

His  flight  to  like  high  goal  Pd  emulate. 

Falling  like  him,  Ell  praise  with  my  last  breath 

The  love  that  brought  so  beautiful  a  death! 


78  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Erasmus  :  This  passion  is  a  thesis  hard  to  prove. 

— What  man  knows  not,  how  is  a  man  to  love? 
Joffroy:  Nay,  to  a  heart  impatient,  nobly  planned, 

That  is  not  love  which  lies  too  close  at  hand. 

(He  lifts  himself  on  his  pallet.) 

Have  I  in  vain  ta'en  pilgrim's  pouch  and  scarp, 

Taken  the  staff  in  vain?     Still  to  my  harp, 

Though  each  faint  breath  the  air  more  faintly  stir, 

Though  I  see  not,  I'll  die  still  singing  her. 

(He  takes  the  harp  that  hangs  from  the  head  of  his  pallet  and 
touches  its  strings.) 

I  hesitate,  I  muse,  I  touch  each  string. 

For  the  last  time  I  sing.     What  shall  I  sing? 

O  verses  that  first  sought  my  love  to  tell, 

Be  thou  my  song  in  dying.     Sing,  Rudel! 

(He  recites,  accompanying  himself.) 

It  is  common  everywhere 
To  sigh,  true  love  to  bear, 
To  an  auburn,  dark  or  fair 

Mistress. 
Eyes  hazel  or  brown  or  gray 
Love's  pains  with  a  smile  repay. 
I — I  love  the  far  away 

Princess ! 

Less  lovely  by  far  is  this; 

— Though  faithful  one  w^ait  for  bliss, — 

The  hem  of  her  gown  to  kiss, 

One  day; 
A  touch  that  would  scarcely  mar; 
A  hand  clasp  she  would  not  bar.    .    .    , 
T,  I  love  the  Princess  far 

Away ! 

'Tis  love  supremely  proved 
To  love  though  not  beloved, 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  A IV AY  79 

To  love  for  aye,  unmoved, 

Nathless. 
A  love  that  no  doubts  dismay, 
More  noble  if  vain,  I  say. 
And  I  love  the  far  away 

Princess! 

For,  Love,  thou  art  divinest 
When  for  a  dream  thou  pinest, 
When  through  a  mist  thou  shinest, 

Sw^eet  ray. 
For  the  dream  is  the  soul's  one  star. 
Life  is  what  its  visions  are. 
And  I  love  the  Princess  far 

Away ! 

{He  falls  back,  exhausted.) 

I  am  foredone!    Alas,  my  fingers  quiver 

And  lose  the  chords!    Tears  like  a  sudden  river 

Smother  my  voice.     It  fails!     O  Melissinde, 

Perchance,  forever  fails,  for  hope.   .    .    . 
A  Voice  {high  in  the  shrouds)  :  Land!  Land! 

{Mad  tumult.     Joffroy  springs  up,  standing  on  his  couch, 
his  arms  outstretched.) 
Marrias  :  Yes,  look ! 

Bruno:  It's  true!    Land!    Land! 

Francois:  Noel!    Row,  still! 

Bistagne:   The  fog  hid  all! 
Juan  :  A  golden  land  ! 

Trobaldo:  a  hill 

Of  violet! 
Pegofat:  Tripoli! 

Bruno  {running  about  like  a  crazy  man)  :   Be  calm! 
Francois:   Land!    Tripoli! 

Marrias  :  Ho !  I  can  see  a  palm ! 

Bistagne:  Not  yet! 


80  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Francois:  Yes,  many  palms! 

Trobaldo:  a  halcyon! 

Pegofat  :   Sand  like  a  lion's  pelt  beneath  the  sun ! 
The  Pilot  :   Aye,  Tripoli !     My  reckonings  were  right. 

Lo!    The  slim  bushes!    Long  walls  gleaming  white! 
All:   Praise  to  the  pilot! 
Pegofat  :  Look,  'neath  the  morning  glow 

The  town  is  red ! 
Bruno:  Oh,  that  pink  bird! 

Francois:  Aye,  'tis  a  flamingo! 

Bistagne:   Let's  all  embrace. 
Trobaldo  :  Let's  sing ! 

Pegofat:  O  sight  to  bless! 

Trobaldo  :    Land ! 
Juan  :  Land ! 

Pegofat  :  Tripoli ! 

Joffroy:  The  Princess! 

(He  falls  fainting  into  Bertrand's  arms.) 
The  Coxswain:    Now  cast  the  anchors  out! 
Bertrand  {whoj  aided  by  Erasmus  and  Fra  Trophimus,  has 
gently  laid  RuDEL  on  his  pallet)  :   O,  he  is  dying! 

Ah,  we  must  land ! 
The  Coxswain:  No,  no!    No  use  in  trying! 

The  ship's  a  shell !     Sharp  reefs  along  this  slope. 

A  scratch  would  sink  her.     We  must  lower  the  rope. 

They'll  send  feluccas  soon  to  take  us  ofiF. 
Bertrand:  His  eyes 

Are  closed ! 

(To  Erasmus,  who  bends  above  the  Prince.) 
He  breathes?   .    .    . 
Erasmus:  A  little.    I  cannot  disguise, 

The  Prince  is  very  weak. 
Bertrand:  We  can't  delay! 

Joffroy:   Thou  spcakst  too  loud.    I  hear  the  thing  you  say  .   .   . 

— Beside,  I  knew.     I  die.     I  will  not  drift! 

Take  me  to  land  1    Be  swift!    Be  very  swift! 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  81 

Let  me  not  die  like  Moses!     Spare  this  pain! 

Let  me  not  see  the  Promised  Land  in  vain ! 
Bertraxd  {loiVj  to  Erasmus)  :  Could  he  be  moved? 
Erasmus:  Not  to  be  thought  of,  sir! 

JoFFROY  {siruggling)  :    I  want  to  see  her! 
Erasmus   {holding  a  phial  to  him)  :    Prince,  you  must  not  stir. 

Drink  this.    And  rest.    And  then,   .    .    . 
JoFFROY  {to  Bertrand)  :  Hear  what  I  say  .  .   . 

0  Bertrand,  carry  me  cost  what  it  may! 
And  if  I  perish,  thou  shalt  not  regret. 
I'll  die  attaining  where  my  heart  is  set. 

1  am  a  man.     Speak  truth,     I  shall  not  wince. 
Would  I  die  ere  I  reached  her? 

Erasmus:  Yes,  my  Prince. 

Joffroy:   O  Bertrand,  help  me! 
Erasmus  :  But,  if  you  will  yield, 

Rest,  without  speaking,  calm,  you  will  be  healed 
And  you  will  see  the  Lady  you  desire.   .    .    . 
Joffroy:    O,  the  physician  must  be  still  the  liar! 

Bertrand,  I  want  to  see  her. 
Bertrand:  Thou  shalt  see  her! 

Joffroy:  How? 

Bertrand:    I  say,  thou  shalt  behold  her!  'Tis  my  vow! 

I'll  see  her,  tell  her,  bring  her  here  to  thee. 
Joffroy  :    Bertrand ! 
Bertrand:  Denial  were  inhumanity. 

Yea,  she  will  come  before  the  daylight  dies. 

I'll  tell  her  of  thy  love  and  thy  emprise.    .    .    . 
Joffroy  :   Bertrand ! 
Bertrand:  Of  a  French  poet  so  possessed 

With  love  of  her, — tempests  and  Turks  oppressed; 

Yet  still,  like  pilgrims  of  the  Cross  who  leave 

All  else  behind,  you  sought  her. 
Joffroy:  You  believe?   .    .    . 

Bertrand  :  That  she  will  come !    I  know  it !     'Tis  my  charge ! 

Quick  ho !    Find  for  me  boat  .   .   .  felucca  .   .   .  barge  .   .   . 


82  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Ah,  the  ship's  skiff!    That's  it!     O  friendly  shores, 

Ye  hold  her  answer !    And  she  comes ! 

(  To  the  sailors. )  The  oars ! 

Myself  will  row.    The  passage  is  not  wide. 

Be  patient,  Prince.    Thou'lt  see  her  at  thy  side! 
Joffroy;   O  Bertrand,  if  thou  dost  that ! 
Bertrand:  Yea!    I  will. 

Will  she  or  nil  she,  I  will  fetch  her  still! 
Joffroy:   If  only  to  her  presence  thou  attain!  .   .   . 

Seeing  you  so  accoutred,  canst  thou  gain 

An  entrance,  past  the  guard?   .    .    . 
Bertrand:  True!   .    .    . 

{To  a  sailor.)  In  yon  shell, 

Place  thou  my  coffer — jewels — arms !    Work  well ! 
Joffroy:  Attend   .    .    .   and  join  this  casket  to  thy  coffer, — 

My  dearest  joyaunces.   .    .    .  To  thee  I  offer 

My  clasp,  my  collar,  and  my  spurs  of  gold, 

Envoy  of  Poet-Lover,   .    .    .   manifold 

Greater  than  King's  Ambassador,  go  splendidly! 

Speed !     Let  naught  stay  thee ! 
The  Coxswain  {to  Bertrand)  :      You  will  need,  may  be, 

A  guide.    They  say  the  palace  lies  afar; 

Now,  since  you  cannot  enter  as  you  are. 

At  the  first  house,  ask  for  a  guide.    No  doubt 

Your  host  will  offer.    Dress.    And  sally  out. 
Joffroy:    Bid  her  come  swiftly.     Else  I  cannot  staJ^ 
Erasmus:    Prince,  if  you  talk,  your  strength  will  ebb  away. 
Joffroy:   I  will  be  silent.   .    .    . 

(To  Bertrand.)  Listen   .    .    . 

Bertrand:  Nay,  thou  must  repose. 

Joffroy:    Move  her,   ...   be  eloquent — embroider — gloze! 

Nay,  tell  her  rather,  on  plain  sooth  relying, 

That  I  adore  her,  tell  her  I  am  dying, 

And,  dying,  sing  her,  my  all-beauteous  one, 

As  cicadas  in  dying  sing  the  sun ; 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  83 

That  ere  he  die,  her  lover  will  know  heaven 

If  for  two  years  of  love,  two  moments  be  but  given. 
Bertrand:  Yes,  yes;  be  still. 
Joffroy:  I  am  silent.    .    .    .   Not — I  adore  her — 

Nor — all  I  said — when  first  you  come  before  her. 

Thou  must  prepare  her.    ...    I  am  still,  I  hush.    .    .    . 

Look  you — couldst  thou  recite,  at  that  first  blush. 

The  verses  that  I  sang,  but  now.     IVIy  passion 

Thou  couldst  not  tell  in  any  fitter  fashion, 

May  be?   .    .    . 
Bertrand:  Ah,  hush!    Fear  naught.    And  I  will  tell 

Tliy  love  in  those  thy  words. 
Joffroy:  Thou'lt  sing  them  well? 

Bertrand  {with  forced  gaiety)  : 

If  I  stressed  one  amiss,  catastrophe! 

I'll  chant  each  strophe  well  and  tenderly. 
Joffroy:    Once  more  thy  arms  about  me  I  would  feel! 

{They  clasp  each  other  in  a  long  embrace.) 
Fra  Trophimus:   Throughout  thy  embassy,  in  prayer  I'll  kneel. 
Erasmus  {low,  to  Bertrand)  : 

The  Prince  may  last  two  days.     No  mortal  power 

Can  tell.     Or  he  may  die  this  evening,  or  this  hour. 
The  Master  {also  whispering)  : 

Sir,  if  he  die  while  you  are  in  the  Gulf. 

We'll  hoist  the  signal  rovers  call  the  Wolf, 

The  black  sail  which  we  Corsairs  after  dark 

Fly,  when  a  white  sail  were  too  fair  a  mark. 
Fra  Trophimus  {going  doivn  with  Bertrand)  : 

Ah,  bid  her  come!     Fail  not  to  bring  her  back! 

Insist!     Persist! 
Bertrand  {pointing)  :   Till  yon  white  sail  is  black! 

{lie  leaps  over  the  deck   rail  and   lowers   himself   into   the 
boat.     One  hears  the  noise  of  chains.) 
Joffroy:    Now  bear  my  pallet  closer  to  the  rail. 
I  know  that  she  will  come. 


84  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Voice  of  Bertrand  {from  beloiv) :    She  will  not  fail! 

I  do  engage.     Be  quiet! 
Joffroy:  Tender  warning! 

Yea,  he  will  bring  her.     Oh,  the  golden  morning. 

The  barque  glides  on   .    ,    .   pink  waves  upon  its  wake. 

Ah,  if  Bertrand  engage  for  true  love's  sake!    .    .    . 
Bruno  :   She  will  come ! 
Francois  :  We'll  see  her ! 

Pegofat:  On  our  boat!    Our  shell! 

Trobaldo:   Hard  by! 

{As  he  disappears  calling  after  Bertrand)  :    Good  luck! 
The  Princess!     Bring  her  soon! 

Plead  well! 
Joffroy  :  The  bark  speeds  on !    The  smooth  sea  gently  rocks ! 

Fainter  the  oars  sound,  grating  in  the  locks. 

.   .    .   Leave  me,  alone.     Here  I  will  meet  my  fate. 

Lo,  I  am  whist.   ...   I  watch  the  sea       ...   I  wait. 

{Curtain) 


SECOND  ACT 

The  hall  of  a  Palace,  whose  luxury  is  half  Romanic,  half  Ori- 
ental. At  the  back  a  great  window  of  stained  glass  opens  on  the 
terraces,  beyond  which  the  sea  seems  to  meet  the  sky. 

Right,  second  entrance,  a  great  open  door  permits  a  glimpse  of 
a  retreating  gallery,  luith  slender  columns  and  sparkling  fountains. 
Left,  a  stairway  of  porphyry  ascends  to  a  heavy  door  of  gold.  The 
glittering  marble  floor  and  the  steps  of  this  stairway  are  both 
streivn  ivith  lilies  freshly  gathered.  A  divan  is  heaped  with  cush- 
ions. Hung  upon  the  wall  near  the  door  an  enormous  battle  axe 
whose  enamelled  hilt  is  embossed  with  green  uncut  gems. 

SCENE  I 

The  Pilgrims 

{When  the  curtain  rises,  the  great  window  is  closed.  A 
group  of  pilgrims,  wearing  the  pilgrims'  gown  with  border 
of  shallop  shells;  each  having  in  his  hand  a  staff  and  a  long 
green  palm  branch.  They  stand  in  the  foreground.  The 
pilgrims  talk  in  whispers,  like  men  dazzled  and  over-awed 
by  what  they  see.) 

First  Pilgrim  :   The  dame  who  met  us  does  not  reappear. 
Second  Pilgrim  :   Silence  so  perfect  that  a  man  can  hear 

The  rustle  of  the  lilies  in  the  hall. 
Third  Pilgrim  :   'Sh !   .    .    .   Listen !     No  .    .    .  only  the  foun- 
tains' fall. 
Fourth  Pilgrim  :  All  sense  of  place  from  me  is  wholly  driven. 

We've  crossed  how  many  halls  and  galleries? 
First  Pilgrim  :  Seven. 

Second  Pilgrim:   What  strange  mosaics! 
Third  Pilgrim:  Sumptuous  drolleries! 

Those  golden  birds  in  jewelled  voleries! 

85 


86  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Fourth  Pilgrim:   Carpets  for  feet;  cushions  to  rest  the  back! 
Secoxd  Pilgrim  {to  Third)  :   Hast  seen  the  grim  colossus? 
Third  Pilgrim:  Aye,  alack! 

He  who  so  stared  at  us?    I  could  not  fail. 
First  Pilgrim  :  'Sh !    'Tis  the  Chevalier  in  Emerald  Mail. 

Foreign  adventurer.    ... 

(At  this  moment,  one  sees  pass  along  the  gallery  a  knight  of 
mighty  stature,  luhose  armour  is  enamelled  with  green.) 
Second  Pilgrim  {to  the  First,  whispering,  and  nudging  with  his 
elbow):  Whist!  .    .    .  Behind  you — but  in  sight. 

Third  Pilgrim  {in  a  low  voice,  covertly  staring  at  The  Cheva- 
lier) :   The  circlet  of  his  casque  is  chrysolite. 
Fourth  Pilgrim:    On  his  glaive's  hilt,  see  how  the  emeralds 
blaze ! 

(The  Chevalier  disappears.) 
Second  Pilgrim  {shivering)  :   I  do  not  like  this  phantom's  prowl- 
ing ways. 
First  Pilgrim  {taking  up  his  interrupted  story)  : 

This  Chevalier,  magnificent  and  cruel, 

Here  represents  the  Emperor  Manuel, 

Affianced  to  the  Princess.    .    .    . 
Second  Pilgrim  :  Then,  that  rumor 

Is  true?    She  weds  him? 
First  Pilgrim  :  He's  of  jealous  humour. 

Knowing  this  marriage  is  affair  of  state, 

Byzantium's  Caesar  fears  a  power  more  great. 

Lest  Love  should  conquer  the  Most  Lovely  One, 

That  warrior  watches  her  from  sun  to  sun. 

The  way  is  barred  to  youths.     He  guards  her  snugly. 

At  least.   .    .    . 
Third  Pilgrim:   But  I  am  young. 
First  Pilgrim:  —They  must  be  ugly. 

Fourth  Pilgrim  :    He  must  be  strong  as    .    .     . 
First  Pilgrim:  All  the  powers  of  evil! 

{Indicating  the  battle  axe  on  the  wall.) 

No  man  can  lift  his  battle  axe. 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  87 

Second  Pilgrim:  The  devil! 

That  comely  youth  who,  late,  upon  the  strand 

Leapt  from  his  skiff,  impetuous,  to  land. 

Calling  upon  the  Moors  and  Genoese 

To  take  him  to  the  Princess,  courts  not  case. 
Third  Pilgrim  :  Madly  he  cried,  not  Beelzebub  could  bend 

His  will  nor  bar  his  way!     He'd  gain  his  end! 

— I  think  he's  one  who'll  do  the  thing  he  planned. 

{A  moment  before  in  the  doorway  leading  to  the  gallery,  The 

Chevalier  has  reappeared.     At  the  last  word,  he  makes 

a  gesture  and  moves  away  very  siviftly.    At  the  sound,  the 

Pilgrims  turn.) 

First  Pilgrim  :   He  heard ! 

Second  Pilgrim  :  He  has  gone  to  issue  some  command 

To  bar  the  way  'gainst  our  Unknown. 
First  Pilgrim  {to  Second  Pilgrim)  :  Old  fool! 

You  talked  too  much. 
Third  Pilgrim  :  Ah !    Bah !    We  can  keep  cool. 

The  youth  went,  first,  to  furbish  up  his  arms, 

With  that  old  Genoese.     Spare  thy  alarms! 

Squarciafico,  merchant  shrewd,  will  know 

The  peril ;  very  cunningly,  will  show 

Means  to  outwit  it.     He  fears  the  Emperor's  laws, 

And  will  befriend  his  rival,  for  good  cause. 
First  Pilgrim  :   Accord  of  viol  and  of  lute  aloft ! 

The  lady  comes  who  first  received  us.    .    .    .    Soft! 

SCENE  n 
The  aforementioned;  Sorismonde;  later,  Melissinde 

SoRlSMONDE  (appearing  at  the  head  of  the  stainvay)  : 
Pilgrims,  who  fare  to-morrow  to  fair  France, 
I  have  told  the  Princess  of  the  circumstance 
That  led  you  here,  from  Antioch  or  Tyre ; 
That  sight  of  her  was  j'our  supreme  desire. 

First  Pilgrim  :    Her  image  lured  through  all  our  errantry. 


88  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Sorismonde:    The  Princess  learned,  and  not  indifferently, 

Of  this,  the  hope  that  led  you  here,  I  ween; 

She,  graciously,  will  let  herself  be  seen. 

She  hears  her  morning  Mass.   .    .    .   Ere  long,  nathless  .   .  . 

{A  bell,  sounding  above.) 

The  Mass  is  said.     She  is  coming! 
A  Herald:  The  Princess! 

(The  golden  door  swings  open.     Melissinde  appears.     She 
wears  a  heavy  cope,  weighted  with  gems.     Her  brow  is 
bound  with  pearls.     Children  attend  her,  carrying  sheaves 
of  lilies.) 
First  Pilgrim:   'Tis  She! 

Second  Pilgrim:  What  grace  beyond  our  outmost  dreams! 

Third  Pilgrim:   Here,  a  great  pearl  and  there,  a  lily  gleams! 
Fourth  Pilgrim:  The  tales  told  true.    She  is  so  beautiful 

Lilies  are  dimmed  and  India's  pearls  are  dull ! 
First  Pilgrim  :   She's  like  to  Helen  of  whom  the  old  tale  spoke ! 
Melissinde  {high  on  the  stairs) : 

So  you  will  soon  see  France,  ye  happy  folk ! 

So  you  believe  your  bark  will  soon  advance 

Through  a  blue  mist  to  lovely,  blue  Provence! 

I  envy  you.     I  am  like  to  these,  my  flowers. 

We  blossom,  both,  'neath  skies  that  are  not  ours. 

Lacking  the  homeland  where  true  souls  are  plighted, 

We  seem  to  blossom,  feeling  we  are  blighted. 

{She  comes  down  a  few  steps.) 

Ye  will  behold  the  very  sun  of  home. 

I  love  a  land  whither  I  may  not  come: 

And  have  regret, — who  have  not  memory.   .    .    . 

{She  comes  down  the  last  steps  and  comes  among  the  Pil- 
grims.) 

Already,  Christian  Pilgrims,  fittingly 

Each  has  his  palm  ere  parting. 

{Taking  the  lilies  from  the  children's  hands.) 

If  'tis  meet, 

Let  each  join  to  his  palm  a  lily  sweet, 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  89 

Bearing  this  reliquary  to  Provence, 
— Frail  token  of  an  exiled  maid  of  France, 
{She  distributes  the  lilies  among  them.) 
A  Pilgrim  :  The  Palm  will  tell  the  pains  the  Flower  effaces, — 

The  desert, — and  thy  beauty,  its  oasis! 
Second  Pilgrim:  Tiie  Palm  will  speak  of  many  a  toilsome  mile; 

The  Lily  tell  us  of  a  fairy's  smile! 
Third  Pilgrim:    Farewell,  Princess!    A  lily  is  thy  face! 
Fourth  Pilgrim:   A  lily's  self,  in  graciousness  and  grace! 

{The  Pilgrims  retire,  one  by  one.) 
Melissinde:  Farewell! 

( The  Pilgrims  go  out;  one  hears  them  as  they  pass  below  the 
great  open  window.  The  children  have  put  the  remaining 
lilies  in  a  great  sheaf  on  a  table;  and  they  renew  on  the  mar- 
ble pavement  the  flowers  which  the  Pilgrims'  feet  have 
stirred  or  crushed.) 
Voices  of  the  Pilgrims  {below  the  window) :  Noel!  Noel! 
(Melissinde,  with  a  gesture  of  farewell,  closes  the  window 
and  comes  down.     The  children  go  out.) 

SCENE  III 
.  •    Melissinde  ;   Sorismonde 

Sorismonde:  What  fine  amenity, 

What  condescension!   .    .    .  The  divinity 

Was  kind  to-day  with  a  new  prettiness. 
Melissinde:  Thou  knowest  I  am  kind  for  idleness! 

{She  nervously  unclasps  her  rnantle.) 

Mantle,  embroidered,  gemmed,  thou  crushest  me 

With  beryl,  corindon,  chalcedony, 

Jaspers  and  garnets  from  Assyria  brought, 

With  senseless  pebbles,  riches  good  for  naught; 

O  mantle,  mass  'neath  which  I,  pallid,  bow, 

O  sumptuous  mantle,  emblem  fit  art  thou 

Of  that  still  heavier  weight,  unseen  of  all, 

Which  I  must  bear.    .    .    . 


90  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

(She  lets  her  cope  slip  from  her  shoulders  to  the  floor.) 

when  I  have  let  thee  fall! 

{She  emerges,  sheathed  in  white.     Sorismonde  picks  up  the 
mantle.     She  hands  her  the  crown  as  well.) 

Take  my  pearls,  also!     Take  my  whole  disguise! 

Ouf! 

{With  a  few  lilies  quickly  plucked  from  the  sheaf,  she  decks 
her  hair.) 

See,  I  am  coiffed  in  fairer,  fitter  guise, 

With  these  my  flowers  which  night's  pearls  still  caress. 

{Throwing  herself  in  the  great  chair.) 

Thou  knowest  I  am  kind  for  idleness! 

{An  interval  of  silence.) 

Is  it  for  idleness  that  I  am  kind  ? 

Nay,  'tis  self  interest.     I  seek  to  bind 

The  palmers'  hearts  with  lilies  as  with  thongs. 
Sorismonde:    What,  Madam,  do  you  hope  from  them? 
Melissinde:  Their  songs! 

Grace  to  the  pilgrims'  songs, — 'tis  so  one  hears, — 

I  am  to-day  the  dearest  of  all  dears, 

Loved  of  Joffroy  Rudel  the  Troubadour, 

As  never  maiden  hath  been  loved  afore! 

Yes,  this  my  poet,  troubadour  of  France, 

Kindled  to  love  at  breath  of  their  romance! 

Thou  knowest  how  my  lonely  heart  is  lit 

By  this  bright  love  whose  rays  have  stolen  to  it; 

How  necessary  has  become  that  love. 

Piercing  the  straitened  round  wherein  I  move. 

{With  a  gesture,  she  indicates  the  window.) 

Ah,  well,  these  pilgrims,  having  paid  their  vow. 

Returned  to  France,  will  sing  my  eyes,  my  brow ; 

Enkindling  dreams  in  hearts  of  youths  afar. 
SoRiSMOKOE :  And  Rudel  know  It!    That's  the  way  we  are! 
Melissinde:    Perhaps,  ah,  truly,  Prince  Rudel  will  hear. 

By  this  device  my  heart,  in  exile  here, 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR   AWAY  91 

Can  hold  sweet  converse  'cross  the  sea's  vast  waste 

With  my  true  lover. 
Sorismonde:  'Tis  a  fashion  chaste. 

Melissinde:    I  would  exalt  in  him  alway  the  pride 

So  to  adore  me.     'Twas  this  hope  supplied 

The  palmers  with  my  lilies  as  they  wended 

Toward  France.     It  was  my  legend  that  I  tended! 
Sorismonde:  Again  to  this  vain  dreaming  you  succumb! 

I'd  love  Rudel   .    .    .   but  he  would  have  to  come! 
Melissinde:   I  love  his  love;  I  love  his  soul;  I  love   .    .    . 
Sorismonde:    I  cannot  understand.     If  you  could  move 

Some  sorcerer's  magic  ring  and  make  to  pass 

His  face  before  you  in  a  crystal  glass   .    .    . 
Melissinde:   Thou'dst  have  all  things  too  clear. 
Sorismonde:  Too  misty,  thou. 

There's  no  such  ring  mid  all  thy  gems,  I  trow 

Thy  spirit  wanders  in  sweet  errantry. 
Melissinde:    Yes,  in  my  garden  gleaming  mistily, 

I  hear  the  wind  in  myrtle  trees  repining; 

I  sail  o'er  Syrtes'  waters  supple,  shining, 

Where  my  proud  galley,  carven,  gold-bedight. 

Mirrors  its  flowers  by  day,  its  gleams,  by  night. 

And  my  soft  lute,  buoyed  by  the  plectrum's  chords. 

Inspires  my  verses  and  the  wave  accords. 

Or  in  these  halls,  in  solitude's  completeness,  • 

My  soul  grows  sad, — and  sorrow  has  its  sweetness ! 

Here  where  my  lilies  press,  on  pave  and  plinth, 

My  dream  leads  through  a  misty  labyrinth; 

Little  by  little,  leads  to  paths  supernal; 

Reason  sleeps  in  the  tinkle  sempiternal. 

In  the  tinkle  sempiternal  of  the  water  in  the  vases. 
Sorismonde:  Oh,  we  need  casques  and  spurs  to  clear  these  mazes! 

We  need  young  chevaliers  and  mirth  and  chaff. 

Your  dreadful  guardian  keeps  them  far.    .    .    .   You  laugh! 

This  man  is  placed  near  you  that  none  may  win 


92  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  palace  Treasure,  guarded  by  the  Djinn. 

Since  he  has  come,  no  hand  knocks  at  our  portal ! 
Melissinde    {laughing)  :    A  guard  of  honor,  scare-crow  for  a 

mortal ! 
Sorismonde:   The  Emperor  is  jealous. 

Melissinde  {shrugging  her  shoulders)  :   And  would  screen  us? 
Sorismonde  {sitting  down  on  a  cushion  at  her  feet) : 

And  truly,  will  you  wed  him,  this  Comnenus? 
Melissinde:   Why  not?    A  consort's  not  a  lover,  certainly. 
Sorismonde:   You  find  him  tiresome? 
Melissinde:  Oh,  imperially. 

Sorismonde:  This  Turk  will  never  know  jou. 
Melissinde  :  Sorismonde, 

One  who  knows  not, — who  will  not  go  beyond 

The  shallow  surface, — to  that  spouse  I'm  vowed ! 

I  told  him,  once,  my  mood.     He  laughed  aloud! 

Ah,  well,  I'll  find, — 'tis  oft  the  woman's  role, — 

Ironic  pleasure  in  my  unguessed  soul. 

Could  better  choice  than  Manuel  be  above  her 

Who  wills  to  keep  an  incorporeal  lover? 
Sorismonde:    But  if,  some  day,  a  lover  veritable, 

Glutton,  should  come  to  thy  heart's  empty  table? 
Melissinde:    My  Love  Invisible  my  heart  would  cover. 
Sorismonde:   For  guardian  angel,  lo,  a  guardian  lover. 
Melissinde:    He  seems  so  near,  at  evening,  on  the  beach 

When  thoughts  sweep  in  as  though  a  dream  had  speech, 

That  to  the  breeze  cry,  "I  give  you  grace." 
Sorismonde:  You  owe  this  poet  nothing? 
Melissinde:  Yes,  my  praise 

Is  due  him;  for  my  scruples,  pride  and  cares, 

Heart  stirrings,  shadowy  hopes  half  unawares, 

Delicate  trembling,  rush  of  tears  that  frees 

Some  hidden  impulse,  new  nobilities, — 

The  whiteness  of  my  robes; — all  are  his  dole. 

In  some  dim  way,  to  him  I  owe  my  soul! 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  93 

SoRiSMONDE  {shaking  her  head)  :  And  for  those  things  you  cry, 

"I  give  you  grace?" 

I  fear  this  love. 
Melissinde:  I,  too,  in  diverse  ways   .    .    . 

It  is  too  cahn.    .    .    . 

{She  rises.)  A  storm  weighs  on  the  air. 

I  suffocate.   .    .    . 

(SoRlSMONDE  seeks  to  remove  the  sheaf  of  lilies  lying  on  the 
table.)  Nay,  leave  my  lilies  there. 

SoRiSMONDE :   Your  lilies  hem  you  in,  your  dreams  redoubling. 

Lilies  are  pale  and  proud.    Lilies  are  troubling. 
Melissinde:   Perchance  thou'rt  right.    Flowers  foreign  and  afar, 

Can  ye  be  false,  who  angels'  sceptres  are? 

With  thyrses  luminous  as  seraphim? 

Cloudy  their  perfume  hangs,  like  incense  dim. 

(She  lifts  the  sheaf  of  lilies  and  gazes  at  it.) 

Perchance  thou'rt  right  and  these  be  evil  flowers. 

I  touch  them,  trembling,  drawn  by  ghostly  powers; 

Their  lonely  pride  chills  a  more  lonely  one ; 

And  laughter  loves  red  roses  in  the  sun. 

{Breathing  in  their  fragrance.) 

Ah,  this  perfume!     My  brow  bends  to  its  chrism. 

Is  it  perverse,  its  subtle  mysticism  ? 

{With  forced  gaiety.) 

So  be  it !    Let  us  live,  play,  be  at  ease ! 

I've  bid  my  merchant  come,  the  Genoese, 

Squarciafico,  he  who  ever  brings 

Pale  silks,  cut  jewels,  curious,  lovely  things. 

It  whiles  away  long  hours;  to  look;  to  choose; 

On  colours  and  designs  and  fabrics  muse. 
Sorismonde:   This  wily  Genoese  displays  his  ware 

And  you  see  not,  your  heart  being  otherwhere, 

What  he  extorts  from  you  by  guileful  play 

For  all  the  merchants'  quarter,  day  by  day.   .    .    . 

Right  dear  to  thieves  are  beauty-loving  princes. 


94  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  whole  bazaar  uneasiness  evinces 

Lest  at  thy  marriage,  they  be  all  deposed, — 

Princess  with  open  hand  and  eyelids  closed! 

"Her  marriage,"  say  they,  "puts  a  wall  between  us." 

They  know  what  master  waits  them  in  Comnenus! 
A  Lady-ix-Waiting  {entering) : 

The  Chevalier  in  Emerald  Mail  seeks  room 

And  audience  of  the  Princess. 
Melissinde  {shrugging  her  shoulders)  :    Let  him  come. 

SCENE  IV 

Melissinde,  Sorismonde,  The  Chevalier  in  Emerald  Mail 

The  Chevalier  {he  has  a  preocccupied  air  and  looks  often  to- 
luard  the  gallery  or  the  great  window)  : 

Princess,  forgive  me  that  I  so  retard 

Coming  for  your  commands.     God  be  your  guard. 
Melissinde  {smiling)  :   Is  it  not  rather  you  who  guard  me,  sir? 
The  Chevalier:   Madam  .    .    . 
Melissinde  :  I  know.    It  is  your  fashion  to  demur. 

But  .    .    .  my  commands?  .    .    .   I'd  sail  upon  the  bay. 
The  Chevalier:    'Tis  well. 
Melissinde  :  My  ship's  in  festival  array, 

Flowers,  music? 
The  Chevalier  {gallantly)  :  Madam,  it  is  always  so. 
Melissinde:   In  that  case,  I  fare  forth  at  once. 

{To  Sorismonde.)  Swift.     Go! 

Fetch  me  a  veil.    .    .    . 
The  Chevalier  {hurriedly)  :    Oh,  not  at  once! 

(Melissinde  gives  a  start  of  surprise.) 

Madame   .    .    . 

I  act  because  I  must.     In  truth  I  am 

Plunged  in  despair.     Tlu's  journey  must  delay. 
Melissinde:  Hein?    What  means  this? 
The  Chevalier:  Not  long.    Till  close  of  day. 


rilE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  95 

Melissinde:   Then  it  was  true? 

The  Chevalier:  Alas!     I  am  but  fief 

To  m)'  liege  lord, — oath-bounden  to  my  chief. 

For  thii;  one  day  I  must  redouble   .    .    . 

Melissinde  ((7H/f /?•/)') :  Why? 

The   Chevalier:    Forgive   me.   ...    I   have   set   armed   men 
hard  by 

To  guard  the  palace  doors.     But  I  prefer 

Myself  to  guard  this  last. 
Melissinde:  A  prisoner! 

Sorismonde  {at  the  window)  : 

Heavens !     Armed  slaves  surround  us  everywhere ! 
Melissinde:   My  men?  .    .    . 
The  Chevalier:  Imprisoned,  by  my  watchful  care, 

{Shoiiing  the  gallery.) 

Just  for  an  hour.     Since  here  /  watch,  not  one 

Can  have  your  orders,  Madam. 
Melissinde:  Featly  done! 

I  am  a  chatelaine  enchanted,  losing 

Her  power  at  a  wand's  touch.    .    .    .    It  is  amusing; 

A  romance,  Sorismonde.  .   .   .  But  what  has  come? 

Why  this  strange  act? 
The  Chevalier  {bowing)  :  Princess,  I  must  be  dumb! 

{He  goes  back,  then  stops,  before  going  out.) 

I  had  forgot.     This  merchant  who  lends  gold. 

The  Genoese,  more  Jewish  than  a  Jew,  old.   .    .    . 
Melissinde:    Squarciafico ! 
The  Chevalier:    I  may  advise 

Admitting,  if  you  wish  his  merchandise. 
Melissinde:  Truly?    You  condescend  so  far?    You  will 

Permit  my  seeing  Squarciafico  still?    .    .    . 
The  Chevalier:  Yes,  Madam.    I  shall  watch  his  every  glance. 

{IJe  goes  out.) 
Sorismonde:   Charming, — to  wed  the  Emperor  of  Byzance! 
Melissinde:   But  what  has  chanced? 


96  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

SCENE  V 

Melissinde  ;  Sorismonde  ;  Squarciafico,  followed  by  his  servant 
NiCHOLOSE,  who  carries  bales  of  merchandise.  The 
Chevalier  in  Emerald  Mail,  arms  folded,  on  the 
threshold. 

Squarciafico  {obsequious,  voluble,  and  watching  The  Cheva- 
lier out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes)  : 

Fairer  she  always  proves! 

More  beautiful,  that  smile  of  all  the  Loves! 

{To  his  servant,  who  opens  the  bales  and  caskets.) 

Nicholose,  all  our  wares.     Dispose  them  fairly. 

{To  Melissinde^  with  an  obeisance.) 

Princess,  these  beauteous  things  will  please  you  rarely! 
Melissinde:   You  still  grow  richer? 
Squarciafico:  Jesus!    I  am  poor! 

Melissinde:    Old  liar!    You  are  rich,  like  all  Genoa. 

You,  who  seek  gold  in  Palestine  the  blest. 

Should  wear,  not  cross,  but  sequins,  on  your  breast ! 

Enriched  by  the  Crusade!     Fi!     AH  men  scofi  it. 
Squarciafico:    The  glory  is  the  Franks'! 
Melissinde:  And  yours  the  profit? 

Squarciafico:   Nay,  all  goes  ill,  despite  our  Patron  George. 

Tolls,  everywhere.  Princess!     They  feed,  they  gorge! 

Our  mills,  our  ovens,  have  been  confiscated. 

{Slyly.)     You'll  give  them  back? 
Melissinde:  We'll  see. 

Squarciafico  {showing  his  bags)  :    Sacks  freighted 

With  perfumes  exquisite. 

{Unrolling  a  carpet.)  A  Persian  woof. 

{Tapping  the  rug  impressively.) 

Ascalon  gives,  In  honest  trade's  behoof, 

To  the  Genoese,  a  hundred  byzants  yearly. 

{Slyly.)     Does  Tripoli  hold  commerce,  then,  less  dearly? 
Melissinde:   We'll  see. 
Squarciafico  {displaying  a  little  chest)  :   You  like  this? 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  97 

Melissinde:  It  is  beautiful. 

Squarciafico:    Pearls  of  the  Gulf;  gold  tissue  of  Mossoul ! 

Myrrh  of  Arabia   .    .    .    ivory,  African.    .    .    . 

{Low.)     'Sh!     I've  a  secret.     Listen,  as  you  can. 

(Melissinde  starts.     Aloud)  :  Splendid  brocade   .    .    . 

(Loic.)  A  young  man  roams   .    .    . 

(Aloud.)  Prismatic   .    .    . 

(Lou.)     Witiiout  the  palace   .    .    . 
Melissinde  (aside)  :  I  see  all! 

Squarciafico  (aloud):  Aromatic! 

(Loiv.)     Forbidden  to  enter   .    .    . 

(Aloud.)  Amber.  .   .   .  Pray  admire! 

(Low.)      He  seeks  an  audience.    .    .    . 

(Aloud.)  Tapistry  of  Tyre! 

Melissinde  (loiv)  :    His  name? 

Squarciafico  (low)  :  I  know  not.   .    .    .   Poet,  I  surmise. 
Melissinde  (with  a  little  cry  which  she  checks  immediately)  : 

Ah!    .    .    .   Ah,  that  scarlet!     It  delights  the  eyes! 
Squarciafico  (low)  :   By  stratagem  can  you  not  bring  him  in? 
Melissinde  (low)  :   But  no! 

Squarciafico:   Linen  of  Egypt,  wondrous  fine  and  thin. 
Melissinde  (low)  :   Whence  comes  he? 
Squarciafico  (low)  :  France!     Out  of  a  boat  he  springs. 

Fair  as  Greek  shepherds,  prouder  than  all  kings   .    .    . 

This  guardian  never  takes  himself  afar?   .    .    . 

(Aloud.)      These  spices  come  from  Kiss-Ben-Omira. 
Melissinde    (low)  :  The  dragon  of  the  myths,  who  ne'er  re- 
lents. 
Squarciafico   (aloud)  :    The  Axumites  ruler  gave  me  this  in- 
cense. 

(Low.)     This  young  man  said  his  audience  must  be  won. 

To  see  you,  he  would  fight,  five  score  to  one! 
Melissinde  (low)  :  Then   .    .    . 
Squarciafico  (aloud)  :    Calamus! 

(Low.)  If,  when  he  winds  his  horn, 

None  answer  his  appeal,  he  will  set  on! 


98  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

(Aloud.)     Balm  of  Arabia,   .    .    .   potent  balm  and  good. 

Placed  on  a  wound,  it  staunches  flowing  blood ! 

{Rising  and  offering  her  a  little  sack.) 

And  last,  from  far  Provence,  for  teeth  pearl  white 

Blanched  filberts  make  a  morsel  of  delight. 
Melissinde  :    'Tis  well.     Enough.     I  buy  all.     Leave  me,  thou. 

(Aside.)     Meseems,  without,  I  almost  hear  him  now! 
Squarciafico  (folding  his  fabrics)  : 

The  next  load  that  I  bring  will  be  the  best. 

(At  an  impatient  gesture  from  Melissinde.) 

I'm  going.    .    .    . 

(Slyly.)  You  will  have  the  tolls  suppressed? 

Melissinde:  Yes. 
Squarciafico  (loiu)  :    Comely  as  Paris!     'Tis  a  dizzmess 

To  see  him. 

(Aloud,  craftily)  :   You'll  grant  the  subsidy? 
Melissinde:  Ah,  yes! 

Squarciafico  (to  himself)  :  I  knew  I'd  struck  the  trail  when  I 
began 

To  aid  the  fortunes  of  this  fair  young  man! 

He,  he!     This  should  dishearten   Manuel. 

(He  turns  on  the  threshold  before  going  out,  and,  with  a  pro- 
found bow)  :    'Tis  said!    A  hundred  byzants  annual! 

(The  Chevalier  stalks  out  behind  him.) 


SCENE  VI 

Melissinde,  Sorismonde;  later  The  Chevalier  in 
Emerald  Mail 

Melissinde  (to  Sorismonde)  :   Hast  thou  heard  all? 

(Sorismonde   makes  a  gesture  of  assent.)      A  youth!     A 

poet !     Oh ! 
Sorismonde:   You  are  perturbed! 

Melissinde:  Perturbed?    I?    Surely  no! 

Sorismonde    (teasingly)  :    You   are  less  wearied   than   an   hour 

agone  ? 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  99 

Melissinde  {throu'ing  herself  on  the  divan)  '. 

Why  not?     Ah,  don't  say  silly  things! 

{One  hears  the  winding  of  a  horn  without.) 

The  horn ! 
SoRlSMONDE    {at  the  great  window)  : 

'Tis  he!    The  challenge!     He  winds  his  horn!     'Tis  he! 
Melissinde  {lying  stretched  on  the  couch;  indifferently)  : 

What  matters  it? 
Sorismonde:  He's  personable  to  see! 

Melissinde  {shrugging  her  shoulders)  :   How  can  you  see  so  far? 
Sorismonde:  I  see  him  plain. 

He  calls!     And  armed  men  sally  forth  amain! 

At  the  first  portal,  now! 
Melissinde:  What's  that  to  mortal? 

{An   interval) 

Ah,  well,  what  does  he  at  the   farthest  portal? 
Sorismonde  :  The  Emperor's  men  at  arms  won't  let  him  through. 
Melissinde:    Poor  callow  youth!     He  turns? 
Sorismonde:  He  fights! 

Melissinde  {sitting  up)  :  Is't  true? 

Sorismonde:  He  hurls  them  back!     He's  past!     O  Virgin  blest! 

I  see  him!     To  the  second  gate  he  has  pressed! 

He  fights!     He  fights! 
Melissinde    {rising)  :  Is  it  true? 

Sorismonde  :  O  courage  grand ! 

{The  horn  sounds  nearer.) 

Hark  how  he  winds  his  horn! 
Melissinde   {standing):  Like  to  Roland! 

Sorismonde:   He  will  pass! 

Melissinde  {at  the  ivindozu,  behind  her)  :    He  comes! 
Sorismonde:  He  falls! 

Melissinde:  He  is  restored! 

Sorismonde:    His  lance  is  broken! 
Melissinde:  He  has  seized  his  sword! 

Ah! 

{She  shrinks  back.) 


100  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Sorismonde:   What  is  it? 

Melissinde :  Oh,  his  eyes!    I  met  his  eyes! 

He  raised  them  and  he  saw  me! 
Sorismonde:  His  emprise 

Is  like  a  tourney.     Throw  him,  then,  your  sleeve! 
Melissinde  {going  to  the  window,  tears  off  her  sleeve  and  holds 
it  high )  : 

Sir  Knight,  strike  hard!     My  favour  white  receive! 

I  charge  you,  change  its  colour!     Heed  my  prayers; 

Defend  your  blood !     And  dye  my  sleeve  with  theirs. 

This  silver  samite,  back  to  me  you'll  bear  it, 

But  not  till  'tis  encarnadined ! 

{She  throws  the  sleeve.) 
Voice  of  Bertrand:  I  swear  it! 

{Tumult  and  clash  of  steel,  then  silence.) 
Melissinde   {coming  down)  :    He's  gained  the  palace. 

(Sorismonde  closes  the  window.     Silence.) 

Deathly  silence  fell   .    .    . 

Silent.    .    .    .   What  did  he  wish  to  say? 
Sorismonde   {pointing  to  the  gallery)  :    Look! 

{A  slave  enters  the  gallery.    He  is  covered  with  blood;  his 
vestments  in  ribbons.     He  speaks  to  The  Chevalier.) 
The  Chevalier:  'Tis  well. 

{He  takes  his  battle  axe  from  the  wall,  and  to  Melissinde, 
with  cold  formality)  Princess,  I  close  the  door, — with 
your   permission. 

{He  shuts  it.     One  hears  the  bolts  shoot  home.) 
Melissinde:   Ah,  what  will  fall?     How  dreadful  is  the  vision! 

{One  hears  a  noise  in  the  palace,  a  noise  that  comes  nearer 
and   nearer.) 

He  comes!   .    .    .   The  Chevalier  in  Emerald  Mail 

Will  kill  him,  with  that  axe  swung  like  a  flail! 

Poor  youth!   .    .    .  With  such  a  brute  he  cannot  battle! 

{Sound  of  footsteps,  close  to  the  door.  Then,  ring  of 
steel.) 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  101 

Ah,  they  engage!  .    .   .  How  long  it  is!  .   .    .   Hark!  Rattle 

Of  steel  on  steel! 

{A   dull,   heavy   sound.) 

A   fall! 
(Silence  again.    Then  the  door  is  opened.    She  shrinks  back.) 

The  bolt  reverses!   .    .    . 
(Bertrand    appears    on    the    threshold,    sword    in     hand; 
wounded    in    the   forehead;    he    throws    at    Melissin'de's 
feet  the  ensanguined  sleeve.) 
Melissinde   {still  retreating)  :  Sir  Knight,  what  would  you  say 

to  me? 
Bertrand:  Some  verses. 

SCENE  VH 

Melissinde  ;   Bertrand  ;   Sorismonde 

Bertrand  {falling  on  one  knee)  : 

It  is  common  everywhere 
To  sigh,  true  love  to  bear, 
To  an  auburn,  dark  or  fair 

Mistress. 
Eyes  hazel  or  brown  or  gray 
Love's  pains  with  a  smile  repay. 
I,  I  love  the  far  away 

Princess! 

Less  lovely  by  far  is  this; — 
Though  faithful  one  wait  for  bliss, — 
The  hem  of  her  gown  to  kiss 

One  day; 
A  touch   that  would  scarcery   mar! 
A  hand-clasp  she  would  not  bar.  .    .    . 
I,  I  love  the  Princess  far 

Away ! 


102  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

IMelissixde    {continuing)  : 

'Tis  love  supremely  proved 
To  love  though  not  beloved 
To  love,  for  aye,  unmoved, 

Nathless ! 
A  love  that  no  doubts  dismay, 
More  noble  if  vain,   I  say, 
And  I  love  the  far  away 

Princess ! 

For,   Love,  thou  art  divinest 
When    for  a   dream   thou   pinest, 
When   through   a   mist   thou   shinest, 

Sweet  ray. 
For  the  dream  is  the  soul's  one  star. 
Life  is  what  its  visions  are. 
And  I  love  the  Princess  far 

Away ! 

Bertrand:  You  know  these  words? 

Melissinde:  From   more   than   one   minstrel. 

Bertraxd:    And  whose  they  are? 

Melissinde:  Yes, — Prince  Joffroy  Rudel. 

Bertrand:    And   this  strange   love  has  won   so  great  a   boon? 

^Melissinde:    Ah,  tell  me  of  that  love,     'Tis  opportune! 

Bertrand:    You  know  the  constancy,  the  fervent  zeal 

Of  this  great  love? 
Melissinde:  I  hive  this  love!    ...    I  feel, 

Sometimes,  when  soft  tides  whisper  on  the  strand. 

This  love  walks  close  beside  mc  on  the  sand; 

111  tile  liluc  stillness  of  the  dusk  I  move 

And  feci  the  very  essence  of  this  love!   .    .    . 
Br;RTRAND:    Heaven! 

{lie   tumbles.) 
Melissinde   {bending  above  him)  :    You  arc  happy? 
Bertrand:  Happy   .    .    .    for,  cftsoons  .    .    . 

Ill   bring.    .    .    .   The  blood  ebbs   .    .    .    I    .    .    .    I    .    .    . 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR   AWAY  103 

Melissinde:  God!  He  swoons! 

Sorismonde ! 
SoRiSMONDE  {running):   Wait!    He  must  He  prostrate  ...  So! 

{Together  they  lay   him  gently   on  some  cushions.) 

Melissinde:  Oh,  run!  Fetch  water!  Ah,  the  cruise!  Quick,  ho! 

Sorismonde   {bringing  the  ewer  and  kneeling  with  Melissinde 

beside  Bertrand)  :  Beautiful  as  a  god,   ...   but  deathly 

pale! 

Melissinde:    His  brow  bleeds!     Linen!     Wait!  I  have   .    .    . 

{She  tears  the  scarf  from   about  her  throat.) 
Sorismonde:  Your  veil! 

Melissinde:    'Tis  naught!    ...    His  heart  beats,   'neath  his 
ciclatoun ! 

The  balm  of  Araby!     It  is  .    .    .  Ah,  run!   .    .    . 

All  potent,  said  he!    Oh!  we  must  determine  .   .   . 

Nay,  do  not  mar  with  stains  his  doublet's  ermine,  .    .   . 

Not  to  recover  him  by  two  swift  chance. 

— He  wears  the  curly  locks  of  fair  Provence! 

Ah,  see!     A  little  red  dawns  in  his  cheek! 

His  eyelids  flutter!     And  he  tries  to  speak! 

He  clasps  my  hand   .    .    . 
Sorismonde:  He  is  better.     See,  he  tries   .    .    . 

Melissinde:    His  eyelids  lift.     He  opens  wide  his  eyes! 
Bertrand   {opening  his  eyes  and  seeing  Melissinde)  : 

I  dream  .    .   .   I'm  Flore.     And  Blanchcfleur  is  she. 

Or  else   ...    I  have  been  wounded  mortally. 

And  wake  with   angels   in   God's  paradise. 
Melissinde:    Hearest  thou,  Sorismonde? 
Sorismonde:  Better!     I  told  no  lies! 

Bertrand    {his  head  on   Melissinde's  arm,  whence  the  sleeve 

has  been   torn)  : 

I  recall  naught  ...   I,  weak?     Could  man  believe  it? 

.    .    .   This  arm  against  my  check   .    .    . 

(Melissinde  moves)  O,  leave  it! 

Melissinde:  I  will  leave  it. 


104  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Bertrand:  O  burning  coolness  of  this  arm  so  fair, 

Of  this  unknown,   bare  arm! 
Melissinde  (quickly  withdrawing  her  arm)  :    True!  It  is  bare! 
Bertrand  {making  an  effort  to  rise,  to  Melissinde)  : 

But  who  art  thou? 
Melissinde:  Sir  Knight,  you  know  full  well, 

I  am  she  for  who  you  had  some  word  to  tell. 

But  you  have  swooned.     It  brought  forgetfulness. 
Bertrand  {starting  back)  :    But  you  are  not  the  Princess? 
Melissinde    {smiling)  :  Certes,  yes! 

Bertrand:  You,  .  .  .  but  then!  .  .   .  you,  the  Princess!  .  .  . 
Oh,  Alas! 

And  I!  .    .    .  Great  God!  .    .    .  The  precious  hours  pass! 

Oh,  haste! 

{He  tries  to  rush  to  the  window,  but  totters.) 

Open  the  window!    Look,  and  tell  me  plain! 

(Melissinde   opens  the  great  window   that   opens   toward 
the   sea.) 

What  do  you  see? 
Melissinde:  Terrace,  flower-strewn   .    .    . 

Bertrand:  Beyond?     Ah,   look   again! 

Melissinde:    The  sea. 
Bertrand:    And  there  .   .   .  Great  God,  what  may  betide!  .   .   . 

See  you  a  Frankish  ship  at  anchor  ride? 
Melissinde:  A  little,  battered  ship,  still  far  away, 

Anchored — I  saw  no  ship  there  yesterday. 
Bertrand:    And  high  upon  the  mast? 
Melissinde:  A  swallow  clings! 

Bertrand:    No  black  sail  at  the  yards? 
Melissinde:  Nay,  halcyon  wings, 

Wide  spread,  white  wings! 
Bertrand:  There  still  is  tune!     My  fear 

Was  false!     O  lady,  haste!     O  Virgin,  hear! 

Prolong  his  life!     He  is  so  faint,  so  fond! 

He  would  die  so  content! 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  A IV AY  105 

Melissinde:  Look,   Sorismondc, 

His  splendid  eyes  are  full  of  desperate  tears! 
Bertrand:    He  would  die  so  content!     For  she  appears 

The  flower  of  flowers,  the  star  beyond  all  stars, 

The  dream  beyond  the  dream ! 

Griefs,  hazards,  wars, 

His  bitter  pains  were  clean  forgot  I  trow, 

If   he  behold   the  wliiteness  of   her  brow, — 

If  he   behold,   beneath   the  tawny  lashes 

The  blue  eyes,  that  are  gray,  where  emerald   flashes! 

See  her  who  long,  not  seeing,  he  has  served! 

— Well  might  he  worship,  at  all  cost,   unswerved ! 

— Alas,  they  dare  not  carry  him  to  sliore! 

Come!     Let  a  dying  man  see  and  adore; 

Let  his  last  moments  know  new  ecstasies! 

On  your  sweet  image  let  him  close  his  eyes! 

Do  not  recoil  with  haughty  mien,   I  pray! 

Be  not  again  the  Princess  far  away! 

Princess,  to  whom  a  honied  name  is  given. 

Come,  that,  ere  dying,  he  may  enter  Heaven. 

Come  that  he  have,  on  his  ship  miserable, 

Of  deaths  the  sweetest   .    .    .   the  most  enviable! 
Melissinde  {wJio  retreats  as  he  advances)  : 

Of  what  man  do  you  speak? 
Bertrand:  Joffroy    Rudel, 

Whose   last   hour   is   at   hand, — whose   love    I    tell, — 

Whose  love  you  said  you  loved !     Be  expedite ! 

He  dies!    And  I  have  promised! 
Melissinde:  But,  Sir  Knight, 

Who,  then,  are  you? 
Bertrand:  Bertrand  of  Allamanon,  know, 

His  friend  and   brother!     Ah,  come  quickly! 
Melissinde  :  No ! 

(  Curtain  ) 


THIRD  ACT 

Same  setting  as  the  Second  Act.  In  the  background,  the  great 
U'indoiv  is  open.  It  is  afternoon,  sparkling  and  brilliant.  The 
marble  pavement  is  strewn  not  with  lilies  but  with  red  roses. 

SCENE  I 
Bertrand;  Sorismonde 

Sorismonde:    I  told  her  you  would  see  her,  at  all  cost. 

Will  she,  or  no?   .    .    .   She  hesitates,  doubt-tossed. 

Hope  still. 
Bertraxd:  Time  presses  so! 

Sorismonde  {shaking  her  head  and  going  toward  the  casement)  : 

A  strange  emprise! 
Bertrand  {in  a  dull  voice):  The  sail? 
Sorismonde:  Still  white  from  the  masthead  it  flies. 

Lo,  at  the  gate  below,  black  robed  and  pale, 

Folk  of  the  Chevalier  with  Emerald   Mail! 

His  household  takes  its  leave.     His  galley's  oars 

Beat  dully  the  bright  waters  of  our  shores. 

When,  with  a  bloody  corpse  for  chief,  they  come, 

Bringing  that  ship  to  proud  Byzantium, 

And  mourning  janissaries  tell  that  tale. 

The  Emperor's  rage  will  make  the  stoutest  quail! 
Bertrand  {sunk  in  reverie) : 

All  suddenly,  so  hard  her  sweet  eyes  gleamed. 

This    liarsh    refusal!      Why? 

{To   Sorismonde)   To  you  it  seemed 

As  strange? 
Sorismonde  {with  an  evasive  gesture)  :   Ah! 
Bertrand:  Why  did  she  refuse?     I  beg  you  .    .    . 

Sorismonde    {seeing   the  golden   door   open):    She! 

106 


THE  PRINCESS   FAR   /Uf'AY  107 

Bertrand:    Entreat  her! 

SORISMONDE  {making  him  go  out)  :  Haste!  Here,  bj-  this  gallery! 
(Melissinde    appears    and    slowly,    listlessly    descends    the 
stairs. ) 

SCENE  II 
Melissinde  ;  Sorismonde 

Melissinde:    Sorismonde,  damsel,  come,  and  tell  me  true 

What  has  my  strange  behaviour  meant  to  you  ? 
Sorismonde   {ivith  a  vague  gesture):    Ah! 
Melissinde:    Why  this  refusal?     Why  this  gust  of  wrath? 

Did  the  storm  stir  me  .    .    .   as  so  oft  it  hath? 

I  have  burned  a  candle.     I  have  said  a  prayer. 

But   .    .    .    this  refusal  took  me,   unaware. 

Was  it  pettishness?  or  did  I  so  resent 

Such  a  deception?  .    .    .  Tell  me  what  it  meant. 

Certes,   it  lacked   a  reason.     That  you  know. 
Sorismonde:    You  know  there  is  a  reason. 
Melissinde  (terrified):  Ah!  Speak  low! 

Sorismonde    {smiling,  after  a  pause)  : 

Be  reassured,     'Tis  this  that  I  devine: 

That  which  was  dear,  which  dreams  had  made  divine, 

You  feared  to  see, — most  natural  recoil, — 

In  very  flesh  and  marred  by  pain  and  moil. 

His  eyes  are  haggard.     Purple  are   his  lips; 

Fevered   the  clammy   hand   that   feebly   grips. 

You  wished  to  keep,  through  all  the  days  to  be, 

A  noble  love  in  noble  memory, 

No  funest  vision,  boding,  new,   unknown. 
Melissinde:    Gramercy!     'Tis  the  reason!    That,  alone! 

Yes,  the  sole  reason  for  my  No.     Haste,  thou! 

Tell  Sir  Bertrand  that   he  may  enter,  now. 
Sorismonde   (smiling):    Since  you  refuse,  to  what  end? 
Melissinde:  I  refuse  .   .   . 

But   .    .    .   cowardice  the  spirit  doth  bemuse. 


108  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

I  owe  this  dying  man  by  Christ  His  laws 

At  least  to  let  Sir  Bertrand  plead  his  cause. 
Sorismonde:    You  owe  it? 
jMelissinde:  Yes.     Let  selfishness  resist. 

]VIy  lord  may  conquer  it,  if  he  persist. 

(Sorismonde  ffoes  to  the  gallery  and  makes  a  sign.     Ber- 
trand comes  in  and  Sorismonde  disappears.) 


SCENE  III 
Bertrand;  Melissinde 

Bertrand:   Ah,  grace,  that  you  receive  me  once  again! 

Persist!     Persist!     My  duty  calls  so  plain. 

For  still  the  sail  is  white,  and  Rudel  lives. 
Melissinde  (sitting  among  her  cushions) : 

Less  ill,  mayhap,  than  this  report  one  gives. 
Bertrand:   Do  not  speak  so.    A  respite — heaven's  meed — 

Space  to  convince  you.     Princess,  hear  me! 
Melissinde  :  Plead. 

Bertrand:   A  moment  since,  I  stood  so  stupidly!  .   .   . 

The  vision  fled  away  so  rapidly, 

She  hurled  her  'No'  against  me  like  a  blow, — 

She  who  had  been  so  kind  a  breath  ago! 

I  was  as  one  deluded,  one  who  dreamed. 

On  the  deserted   air,   a  fragrance  streamed, 

Light  witness,  as  your  floating  veil  fled  by, 

Like  to  the  perfumes,  drifting  ceaselessly, 

That  will  haunt  Tarsus  to  the  very  last, 

Because  once   that  way   Cleopatra  passed. 
Melissinde  (smiling  and  holding  cut  her  slim  wrists  from  which 
depend  tiny  boxes  of  perfumes)  : 

The  fragrance  was  this  perfume  of  the  East, 

Amber,  a  whiff  of  sandal,  O  the  least, 

Least  bit.     I  wear  it  in  this  tiny  golden  flask, 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  109 

(Bertrand  kneels  and  kisses  her  hand.) 

Here  on  my  wrist.     Is  it  the  same,   I  ask? 
Bertrand    {in  a  slightly  changed  voice)  : 

The  same,   .    .    .   but  added,  measureless,  I  feel 

Thy  very  self. 
Melissinde  (as  he  is  about  to  rise)  :  Since  you,  are  pleading,  kneel. 
Bertrand   (kneeling)  : 

Rudel's  report  I  am  too  vile  to  render! 

A  spirit  sweet,  a  soul  sad,  true  and  tender; 

His  love  for  you!    Nay,  all  words  were  too  weak! 

I  am  not  fit  to  tell  this  romance. 
Melissinde:  Speak! 

You  love  him  then  so  much? 
Bertrand:  Admire  and  love  him. 

When  first  he  came  to  Aigues-Mortes,  plain  above  him 

Death  hovered;  his  physician  told  him  this; 

Unflinching,  facing  death,  he  thought  it  bliss 

Just  to  set  sail,  to  see  his  dear  Unknown 

And  die!     This  lover,  with  this  aim  alone, 

Kindled  my  spirit  and  my  heart  approved  him; 

I  sought  him,  saw  him  .    .    . 
Melissinde:  And  at  once  you  loved  him? 

Bertrand:    At  once  I  loved  him.     Dreams  the  spirit  blend. 

I  am  his  disciple,  brother  and  his  friend. 

They   all   condemned!      None   understood   him,    none! 

But   I,   I  wished  to   follow    .    .    . 
Melissinde:  Oh,  well  done! 

Bertrand:    At  first  the  ocean  showed  us  clemency. 

While  billows  rocked  us  softly,  dreamily. 

He  bade  me,  from  pink  morn  to  twilight  blue, 

Repeat  the  lovely  songs  he  made  for  you. 
Melissinde:    You   said    them   well,    I    think,   with   that  warm 

voice. 
Bertrand:  Roland  loved  Aide,  the  lady  of  his  choice, 

Tristan  adored   Iseult;   Flore,   Blancefior; 


no  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

But  Oh,  Rudel  loved  Melisslnde  still  more! 

Rudel  pressed  love  beyond  the  last  extreme! 

Ah,  his  complaints,  his  tears,  his  prayers,  his  dream! 

Night-long  I  watched,     I  know  each  tear  he  shed. 
Melissixde :    Then,  it  was  you  who  watched  beside  his  bed? 
Bertran'D   {standing,  lyrically  declaiming)  : 

The  voyage, — how.  Lady,  tell  it,  mile  by  mile? 

This  agony,   still   straining  toward   your  smile? 

O,  we  believed  wind-driven  endlessly 

We'd  wander  always  on  a  boundless  sea! 

The  shattering  shell,  the  mounting  wave  we  saw! 

Our  prince  was  like  the  King  of  Ithaca. 

Through  all,  he,  dying,  lived,  by  faith  alone. 

The  dream  that  won  me,  all  the  others  won! 

Sometimes  the  weather  cleared.     A  port  was  sighted. 

Some  smiling  island  beckoned  and  invited; 

And  we  were  fain  to  rest  amid  its  flowers. 

Still  he  refused ;  and  breezes  from  its  bowers 

Freshened  our  sail.  .   .   .  And  then,  a  calm.  .   .   .  And,  hark, 

Rattle  of  oars!     To  meet  a  Turkish  barque! 

We  engage!     We  sink  her!     Onward!     And  we  row! 

Now  stalks  gaunt  famine,   deadliest,   grizzliest  foe! 

Our   men   are  spectres  terrible   to   see; 

Masts,  stumps;  sails,  rags  that  fluttered  helplessly. 

Hope  gone;  Prince  dying.   .    .    .  Then   .    .    .   Land!     Com- 
prehend  .    .    . 
Melissixde    {shuddering)  :    Thy  awful   perils,   danger  without 

end ! 
Bertrand    {surprised)  :   Mine? 
Melissixde   {hurriedly,  trying  to  recall  the  words): 

Thine  .    .    .   for  thy  Prince  .    .    .   whose  cause  you  under- 
take. 
I  •   •   •  I  .   .   .  am  grateful,  ...  for  the  Prince's  sake.  .   .   . 
Bertraxd:    Madam    .    .    . 
Melissixde:    Are  you  so  modest  j'ou  must  stand  apart, 

Deny  your  service  to  your  very  heart? 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR   AWAY  111 

A  friend  so  loyal,  love  so  pure  and  steady! 
I  go!     My  galley!     Bid  my  men  make  ready! 
I  come ! 
(Bertrand  seems  about  to  speak.) 

But  .    .    .   not  another  word !     O  God ! 
{She  goes  out,  much  moved  and  precipitately.) 

SCENE  IV 
Bertrand;   later,   Squarciafico 

Bertrand:    She  comes. — Her  "No"  was  but  a  lady's  nod, — 

A  cruel  jest.     Even  when  men  are  dying. 

They  play  the  woman  still.     Lightly  denying; 

Dallying,    from  habit;   barbarous   for   art; 

Withholding   solace    from   a   dying   heart. 

{He   turns   to    the  ivindoiu.) 

Poor  friend,  who  waitest  the  vision.  .    .    .  She  is  near. 

Thou'lt  die  content,  Rudel! 
Squarciafico  {who  enters  at  these  words)  :   What  is  it  I  hear? 

You  are  not  Jofifroy   Rudel? 
Bertrand:  I! 

Squarciafico:  Diavolo! 

All  my  fair  hopes  in  smoke  and  water  go! 
Bertrand:    Your  hopes? 
Squarciafico:  Yes,  when  I  saw  your  proud,  brown  head, 

I  said,  "That's  he!"  "Our  fortune's  made,"  I  said. 
Bertrand:   Your  fortune? 
Squarciafico:  Yes.  "There,"  says  I,  "past  a  doubt. 

The  poet  lover  puts  the  rest  to  rout. 

He  comes  as  conqueror.     He  slew  the  giant: 

He'll  be  her  spouse.      The  Princess  will  be  pliant." 
Bertrand:    Hein? 
Squarciafico:  Oh,  it  was  perfect!     Manuel,  one  sees, 

Detests  Venetians  and  the  Genoese. 

Ah,  if  he  reign,  ill  shall  we  merchants  fare; — 

Yet  what  we  ask  is  but  a  small  affair ! 


112  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

To  let  us  work  as  we  have  always  wrought; 

A  poet  was  the  very  king  we  sought. 

Each  in  his  own  sphere,  fitly  occupied, 

He  could  make  poems  while  our  crafts  we  plied. 

Perfect!     Just  perfect!     Lovers  on  the  throne; 

Through  deputies  their  royal  will  made  known, 

They  would  not  steel  their  wills  to  sudden  zeal, 

Forbidding  trade  .    .    . 
Bertrand:  You'd  have  the   .    .    .  will  to  steal? 

Squarciafico:  Y  .   .   .  no.    Oh,  come.    You  understand.  .   .   . 
Bertraxd:  I  do,  indeed. 

Squarciafico:    Rudel  must  die.     This  journey  serves  no  need. 
Bertrand:    No  need!     Adventure  of  the  spirit,  fire  and  flame, 

You  must  fulfill  some  need,  some  purpose! 
Squarciafico  :  Dame ! 

Bertrand    (to  himself)  :    They  understood, — sailors  before  the 
mast! 

But  this,  this  treachour,  meanest,  least  of  last, 

In  his  vile  brain,  for  tricks  and  trading  fit. 

Dishonours  the  Idea   .    .    .  makes  use  of  it! 

Naught  is  so  noble  .   .    .  better  foul  abuse !  .   .   . 

But  there  be  some  to  ask.  What  is  the  use? 

Must  all  be  soiled  by  reckonings  infamous? 

— Would  thou  couldst  hear  this  wretch,  Fra  Trophimus! 
Squarciafico  :  To  think  this  Manuel, — he  be  damned  forever ! — 

Will  soon  espouse  the  Princess. 
Bertrand  (vehemently)  :  Never!  Never! 

Squarciafico  (aside):    A-ha! 
Bertrand:  Never  shall  that  barbarian,  I  swear 

Take  to  himself  that  creature,  fragile,  rare! 
Squarciafico   (to  himself)  :    Another  tack  and  all  may  yet  be 
well ! 

(Aloud)  Untimely  in  his  death,  this  Lord  Rudel. 

(Bertrand,  sunk  in  his  thoughts,  seems  not  to  hear;  Squar- 
ciafico comes  closer.) 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  113 

She  would  have  wed  him ;  loving  poets,  who 

Loves  also  Franks,  and  he  is  both ; — like  you ! 

This  voyage  too  its  part  had  surely  played, 

This  voyage  romantic, — which  you,  too,   have  made. 

But  he  is  dying.     'Tis  the  way  of  fate, — 

Death  comes  too  soon,  and  profit  comes  too  late. 

His  hand  outstretched  to  touch  the  goal,  he  dies   .    .    . 

And  leaves  a  second  man  to  seize  the  prize. 
Bertrand:    Always  the  mast!     If,  floating  from  its  peak, 

I  saw  Death's  signal!  .    .    . 
Squarciafico   {coming  closer):    Child!     Sir  Baby!     Speak! 

Ho!  For  a  dying  man  this  fervor  giving! 

When  you  could  plead  so  blithely  for  the  liv'ng! 

(Bertrand  turns  and  looks  at  him;  he  shrinks  back.) 
Bertrand:  Thou  sayest?  .    .    . 
Squarciafico:  Naught! 

Bertrand  {seizing  him  by  the  throat):   Wretch! 
Squarciafico  {freeing  himself):   Ho!     I  admire  your  plan 

Of  thanking  me  for  good  advice,  young  man! 
Bertrand:  Ah,  I  will  crush  thee!   .    .    . 

SCENE  V 

The  Same.     Melissinde,   Sorismonde,   Ladies-in-Waiting.   car- 
rying the  cope,  the  diadem  and  the  sceptre  of  the  Princess 

Melissinde:  What  is  this? 

Bertrand  {to  Squarciafico):    Serpent!     Hush! 
Squarciafico:    So  be  it, — serpent!    One  that's  ill  to  crush ! 
Bertrand:   Thy  poison  bruise  my  heel?    A  trifling  thing! 
Squarciafico:    'Tis  in  thy  heart  that  I  will  leave  my  sting! 
Melissinde  {advancing,  trembling)  : 

My  guest  thus  menaced  by  a  knavish  wight? 

Leave  my  domain  before  to-morrow's  light! 

For  if  dawn  find  thee  still  in  Tripoli, 

Sunrise  shall  find  thee  nailed  upon  a  tree! 


114  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Squarciafico:  Banished!    This  is  ruin! 

(To  Bertrand.)  I  give  thee  thanks! 

Thou'lt  see !    I'll  be  avenged ! 

{As  he  goes  out.)  These  ingrate  Franks! 

Melissinde:    Banished!    To  please  you  I  have  said  that  word! 
Bertrand:  That  man  had   .    .    .   had   .    .    . 
Melissixde:  Had  angered  you,  my  lord. 

It  is  enough.     This  instant  we  depart. 

Go  see  if  all  is  ready  for  the  start ; 

Galley  and  rowers, — go! 

(Bertrand  gazes  at  her  a  moment  as  if  bewildered  and  then 
goes  out  abruptly.) 

SCENE  VI 
Melissinde;  Sorismonde;  for  a  moment,  the  Ladies-in- Waiting 

Melissinde  (nervously,  to  Sorismonde)  :    My  diadem! 

He  knows  not  me, — so  he  must  love  this  gem — 

Whatever  makes  me  Princess.     So  I've  planned 

To  go  as  Princess,  sceptre  in  my  hand. 

Give  me  my  sceptre!     Hah,  a  woeful  weight! 

{She  tries  to  put  on  her  cope,  but  gives  it  back  to  one  of  the 
ladies-in-waiting . ) 

Carry  this  mantle, — prison  garb  I  hate! — 

Down  to  the  galley !    Go !     Make  haste !     Bestir ! 

Heavy  these  gems, — this  gold ;  still  heavier ! 

When  we  arrive,  ye'U  deck  me  queenly-wise! 

{Her  ladies  go  out  carrying  all  her  ensignia  of  rank.) 

{To  Sorismonde.) 

Dost  thou  think  I  will  have  to  close  his  eyes? 
Sorismonde:    You  are  overwrought,  fearing  this  grizzly  vision! 

Ah,  Madam,  send  your  priest  or  your  physician! 
Melissinde:    Nay,  all  were  simple  if  one  heeded  you. 

I  suffer  an  obscure  revolt,  'tis  true, 

Seeking  one,  pale,  with  dying  eyes  grown  dull, — 

Forsaking  him  who  is  living,  beautiful! 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  115 

SoRiSMONDE :    Forswear,  my  lady,  this  fantastic  goal ! 

BicJe  here.     Reclaim  your  liberty  of  soul ! 

You  love  the  other.     Who  then  can  forbid? 
Melissinde:    I  love? — I  told  you,  and  I  thought  'twas  hid! 
Sorismonde:   You  are  disconsolate.     I,  ravished  quite. 

Forsaking  dreams,  you'll  turn  to  life  and  light! 
Melissinde:   And  shall  the  lilies'  sister  give  her  token 

To  the  first  comer,  virile,  young,  fair-spoken? 
Sorismonde  :  Nature,  my  Lady,  such  revenge  may  wreak. 
Melissinde:    Because  I  placed  my  arm  beneath  his  cheek, 

— And  his  cold  hand  grew  warm  within  my  own,   .    .    . 
Sorismonde:  Because  on  his  pale  brow  sucji  beauty  shone.    .    .    . 
Melissinde:  Because  his  sigh.    .    .    .   Oh,  no!    In  vain  declare 

False  reasons!     I  mistook  him.    .    .    .   Thou  wouldst  dare 

Make  reasons  for  thyself,  O  Fool?   .    .    .    'Twas  Love 

That  so  abused  me,  so  made  haste  to  prove 

When  his  voice,  grave  and  tender,  named  the  friend 

For  whom  I  longed,  yet  dared  not  to  attend. 

Love  whispered,  'twas  himself!     My  heart  took  fire; 

Desired  it  so,  and  hearkened  to  desire! 
Sorismonde  :  'Tis  clear. 
Melissinde:  For  I  had  heard,  with  what  excess 

Of  joy,  my  dreamer  sought  his  far  princess! 

And  now  he  comes,  this  brave,  unhappy  prince, 

Through  deadly  pains,  his  worship  to  evince; 

He  comes,  and  gave  his  life  to  come ; — and  she 

Whom  he  would  see  and  die,  waits  tremblingly. 

And  seeks  delays,  and  on  her  doubts  would  dwell, 

Because  he  chose  his  messenger  too  well! 
Sorismonde:   Eh,  yes. 
Melissinde:  Too  well!     Secst  thou,  Sorismonde, 

How  one  so  brov.n  can  have  a  voice  so  blonde? 

And  one  so  proud,  all  conquering,  be  so  mild, 

With  all  the  charming  shyness  of  a  child? 

To  wound  the  proud  one,  thou  wert  swift,  O  cupid ! 
Sorismonde:     You  love  him.    Then  bide  here.    Reason  .   .   . 


116  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Melissinde:  Is  stupid, 

Stupid,  and  flat,  still  living  at  one  level! 

— The  good  all  good  and  evil  wholly  evil ! 

'Tis  their  commingling  that  makes  all  our  trouble, 

So  many  hearts  are  desperately  double ! 

One  held  so  long  the  cup  of  dreams  a-brim, — 

He  who  lies  sick, — I  love  and  pity  him. 

The  other,  I  adore !    Both  loves  I  rue ! 

My  heart  between  them  has  been  riven  in  two ! 
Sorismonde:   Then,  seek  the  ship;  delight  the  dying  eyes; 

And  afterwards  you  could.    .    .    . 
Melissinde  :  Base  compromise ! 

Fit  for  thy  Reason.     All  unworthy  scheme ! 

Shall  I  descend  to  this,  who  loved  the  Dream? 

Joffroy  Rudel  die  happy  in  my  arms, — 

His  friend,  surviving,  then  enjoy  my  charms? 

Ah!  worldly  counsel,  very  fit  and  fond! 

Not  that !    No  middle  courses,  Sorismonde ! 

Not  happiness  bought  with  a  compromise ! 

I  have  dreamed  of  love  sublime,  not  otherwise! 

If  I  forswear  love  mystic  and  sublime. 

Proudly  at  least  I'll  plunge  in  splendid  crime! 
Sorismonde  :  You  seek  new  subtilities  wherein  to  rove  ? 
Melissinde:  If  Lord  Bertrand  should  know  of  this  my  love?  .  .  . 
Sorismonde:    I  understand.   .    .    . 

Melissinde:  'Tis  this  that  tempteth  me. 

Sorismonde:  To   .    .    .     break  resistance  .    .    .  conquer  loyalty ? 
Melissinde:   It  were  in  truth  a  very  vile  success. 

Who  thinks  not  on  such  cruelties,  natheless? 

Ah,  what  true  woman  in  the  list  of  us? 

One  needs  must  love  whom  one  makes  Infamous; 

Console  the  pangs  if  one  have  caused  the  grief. 

Of  all  sweet  victories,  hearts  find  it  chief 

To  put  beneath  our  feet  that  foe  we  hate. 

That  wretched  Honour  ye  so  proudly  prate. 

Wliat  woman  lias  not  sought,  as  I  seek  now, 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  117 

To  break  man's  march  triumphal,  wilfully, — 

Not  quite  Delilah,  no,  but  Omphale? 

To  hold  a  hero  with  a  strand  of  hair? 

What  woman  doth  not  seek,  if  she  but  dare, 

To  hold  Orestes  bounden  as  with  chains, 

While  his  Pylades  dies,  he  knows, — and  he  remains! 


SCENE  VII 
Melissinde;  Bertrand 

Bertrand:   Your  glittering  galley  waits  in  expectation, 

The  rowers  ready.    .    .    . 
Melissinde  {to  herself)  :  Horrible  temptation! 

(SORISMONDE  withdraws  quickly,  and  goes  quietly  out.) 
Bertrand:   Why  this  strange  gaze  that  long  upon  me  lingers? 

Why  do  you  twist  your  rings  with  fevered  fingers? 
Melissinde:    Mayhap  new  motives  in  my  fancy  run, 

Forbidding  me  to  follow.    .    .    . 
Bertrand  {earnestly):  Surely  none! 

Melissinde  :  Yet  .  .  .  still  I  doubt  .  .  .  and  tremble  at  your  plan. 

If  I  love  someone   .    .    . 
Bertrand  {vehemently) :         Nay,  you  love  no  man! 
Melissinde:    'Tis  he  says  this!   .    .    .Alas!     'Tis  even  so. 

I  love.     'Tis  Love  that  bids  me  not  to  go. 
Bertrand  {starting  violently)  : 

You  love  another?    Wliom?   .    .    .   That  I  may  slay!  .    .    . 
Melissinde:   You'd  kill  him?    Ah,  you  know  not  what  you  say. 
Bertrand  {beside  himself)  :   Tell  me  his  name! 
Melissinde:  Must  I? 

Bertrand  :  Yes ! 

Melissinde   {going  toward  him,  languorously) :    Must  I? 
Bertrand  {recoiling):  No! 

Ah,  tell  me  not  his  name!     I  will  not  know! 

For  if  'tis  he   .    .    . 

{Draiving  his  sword)   him  above  all  I'll  slay! 
Melissinde:  Ah,  do  not  strike!    The  name  I  did  not  say! 


118  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Bertrand  :   I  am  a  knight  forsworn ! 

Melissixde:  Nay,  still  your  honour 

Is  safe. 
Bertrand  {half  to  himself)  :    Lost!    For  with  joy  I  heard,  and 
looked  upon  her! 
A  throb  of  joy! 
Melissinde:  I  am  proud  past  all  belief! 

Bertrand:    Steal  from  a  dying  man!     O  cursed  thief! 

O,  haste!     Thou  art  not  cruel!     O  relent! 
Melissinde:  'Tis  for  that  cause  I  go  not.    If  we  went, 
I'd  tremble  lest  my  heart  prove  false  to  me, 
Seized  with  some  madness  of  nobility! 
Could  I  myself  against  myself  defend? 
— Long  have  I  loved  him.     Try  to  comprehend. 
He  was, — I  sigh  because  I  knovv^  'tis  true, — 
My  better  soul,  and  my  worse  soul  is  you ! 
To  be  yours  .   .   .  thine.     I  must  not  look  ...  I  know 
Into  Rudel's  eyes!     Ah,  I  will  not  go! 
You'll  cease  to  plead,  lest  my  will  bow  before  you! 
Bertrand:  What  shall  I  do?  .   .   .  Rudel  .   .   .  I  .   .   . 
I  adore  you ! 
Ah,  turn  your  lovely,  languorous  look  on  me!  .  .  . 
I  fear  that  window  open  on  the  sea! 
Melissinde  {flies  to  the  zvindoiv,  closes  it  quickly  and  turns  atvay 
from  it)  :  Ah,  now  'tis  closed!     I  have  thee,  and  will  keep! 
'Tis  closed,  I  tell  thee!     From  that  casement  deep 
None  shall  look  out.     And  all  within  is  fair. 
{She  comes  down  to  him.) 
Ah!     Let  us  breathe  the  perfumes  on  the  air! 
From  this  my  palace  never  be  thou  led  ! 
See,  they  have  strewn  the  hall  with  roses  red, — 
This  hall  where  erst  cold  lilies  were  displayed. 
— The  window's  shut,  I  say !     Be  not  afraid ! — 
I  have  renounced  pale  flowers  with  mystic  wile 
For  amorous  crimson  roses!     Prithee,  smile! 
Nay,  we  know  nothing.     How  then  should  we  know? 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  119 

We'll  ask  nobody.     Always  kneeling  so, 

Thou'lt  live.     And  find  my  arms  alone  are  near. 

What  is  remorse?     And  what  is  there  to  fear? 

Who  told  us  of  a  ship?     Of  a  Rvidcl? 

Beside  our  love  there's  naught  that's  real  to  tell ! 

Beyond  the  window,  gold  sands  woo  tlie  tides 

Of  a  blue  gulf  .    .    .  all  blue  .    .    .  where  no  ship  rides! 

Some  day  we'll  open  it, — in  after  years, — 

This  window,  and  we'll  mock  at  all  our  fears   .    .    . 

For  we'll  see  nothing!     What  is  this  silly  fable? 

A  white  wing  changing  to  a  wing  of  sable? 

An  idle  tale,  Bertrand ! — The  window's  fast! — 

Naught  there,  Bertrand,  naught!     Only  love  can  last! 

Why  then  imagine  something  grim  and  dread 

Beyond  the  window?     Soft  its  light  is  shed; 

Gold  and  enamel  all  its  spaces  fill   .    .    . 
Bertrand:  Ah,  must  you  talk  but  of  this  window  still? 
Melissinde:   Oh,  it  is  false!     I  only  speak  ...  of  thee 

And  of  my  love,  and  of  thy  love  for  me.    .    .    . 

Nay,  but  thy  collar's  clasp  becomes  thee  well. 

Bertrand,  who  gave  it  thee? 
Bertrand:  Joffroy  Rudel. 

Melissinde:   Ah,  well !     'Tis  naught!    Throw  it  away! 
Bertrand:  My  brother, 

I  pleased  her  with  thy  joyaunces! 
Melissinde:  No  other 

Bedizement  you  needed  to  display 

Than  thy  brown  jerkin,  stained  with  foam  and  fray! 

Bold  young  adventurer,  what  were  garb  uncouth? 

For  clasp  upon  thy  throat  thou'd  have  my  mouth. 
Do  not  shrink  back !     Nay,  when  thy  heart  deniest 

Thine  eyes  the  sight  of  me,  look,  love,  thou  licst! 

Thou  knowest   .    .    . 
Bertrand:        That  thy  voice  thrilled  me  and  my  heart  replied  I 

{The  iviniloiv  is  flung  open  by  a  gust  of  tvlnd.) 
Melissinde:  Ah!    The  sea  breeze  has  flung  the  window  wide! 


120  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Bertrand:   The  window  is  opened. 

jVIelissixde:  Haste  thee!     Close  it! 

Bertrand  :    "  No ! 

I  fear  the  horizon, — a  black  sail  below ! 
Melissinde:    Then  turn  thy  eyes  and  swiftly  it  is  done! 
Bertrand:   No!  I  would  look! — would  feel  it! 
Melissinde  (rising  to  go  to  the  windoiv;  moving  close  along  the 
wall)  :  Let  us  shun 

Facing  the  window.   .    .    .   So,  I  can  approach.    .    .    . 

{At  the  moment  of  reaching  the  casement,  she  hesitates,  not 
/iaring  to  close  the  window;  slowly  she  draws  back,  ahvays 
moving  close  against  the  wall;  and  she  falls  beside  Ber- 
trand on  the  divan.) 

Ah,  well !    We'll  bide  here !     Nothing  can  encroach ; 

Wrapped  in  our  love  profound  that  shields  and  covers, 

And  be  like  all  the  world  of  happy  lovers! 
Bertrand:   How  sayest  thou? 
Melissinde:  I  say  that  all  mankind 

Has  still  some  window,  fears  to  look  behind, 

Feeling  a  secret  chill  in  heart  and  hand. 

Hearing,  behind,  the  Window's  shrill  demand! 

And  all  bide,  cowering.     None  will  turn  and  know, 

Lest  dolorous  Duty's  ship  be  seen  below, 

Calling  them  far  from  joys  they  long  to  broach. 

Or,  if  it  were  too  late,  the  dark  reproach 

Of  thy  black  folds,  Remorse,  float  overhead ! 

All  cower  among  their  cushions  like  the  dead ! 

All,  all  would  keep  the  dear  desire,  the  joy 

That  one  glance  toward  the  Window  could  destroy. 

None  dare  to  see  black  sails  above  the  billows! 

Let  us,  like  them,  crouch  in  the  coward  pillows! 

(She  puts  her  arms  about  him  and  they  both  hide  their  faces 
in  the  cushions.) 
Bertrand:  Aye,  let  us  bide!    Alas!    The  bitter  dole! 

Can  wc  ?     Woe's  nic !     I  have,  thou  hast,  a  soul ! 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  121 

Can  souls  in  such  a  pli^lit  know  happiness? 

We  are  not  like  those  others! 
Melissinde:  Certcs,  yes! 

I  love  thee! 

{A  noise  of  cheerful  voices  is  heard  through  the  window.) 
Bertrand  {trembling)  :    What  is  that? 
Melissinde  :  'Tis  naught.     My  pages 

And  lackeys,  and  some  folly  that  engages. 
Voices  {without)  :    One  .    .    .three  .    .    .  eight  .    .    . 
Melissinde:  Naught!    A  favourite  device; 

They  often  gather  there  to  cast  their  dice, 

To  play   .    .    . 
The  Voices:   Tra  la! — It's  fair! 
Bertrand:  O  Melissinde,  I  love  thee! 

What  fairy  at  thy  christening  bent  above  thee? 

To  tell  thy  golden  hair  thy  name  was  given, 

Thy  honied  lips   .    .    . 
The  Voices:  The  sea!     Look!     Look! 

Bertrand  {trembling):  Just  Heaven! 

What  do  they  look  at? 
Melissinde:  Something  far  away! 

A  Voice:   See  you  that  ship? 

Bertrand:  "See  you  that  ship?"  they  say! 

Melissinde:  Ah,  well,  don't  listen! 

Bertrand  :  Nay,  I  must.    That  voice  .  .  . 

Melissinde:   /  heed  not,   ,    ,    ,  What  says  he? 
Bertrand  {with  a  hopeless  gesture) :   We  have  no  choice. 
Melissinde:   Is  there  but  one  ship?     Why,  believe?  alack!  .   .   . 
A  Voice:   They  hoist  a  sail!     Look!     Look!    The  sail  is  black! 

(Melissinde  and  Bertrand  recoil.) 
A  Voice:   I'm  going  to  the  beach!    You  others,  come! 

{A  sound  of  voices  and  of  retreating  footsteps.     Bertrand 
and  Melissinde,  not  daring  to  look  at  each  other,  move 
sloii'ly  aivay  from  each  other.     A  long,  long  silence.) 
Melissinde  {at  last  in  a  voice  that  is  hardly  audible)  :  Ah,  well? 


122  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Bertraxd:   Well?    Naught! 

{Mechanically  he  lifts  Melissinde's  scarf  which  lies  among 
the  cushions,  and  breathes  its  fragrance.) 

This  perfume  fills  the  room! 

What  did  you  say  it  was?     The  memory  slips  .   .   . 
Melissixde:    Yes.   .    .    .   I   .    .    .   amber.   .    .    . 
Bertraxd:  Thy  veil.   .    .    .   O,  with  my  lips 

I  drink  its  fragrance.    .    .    . 

(He  falls  doii'n  in  a  heap,  ivith  terrible  rending  sobs.) 
Oh!  oh!  oh!     It  is  the  end! 

Dead!     He  is  dead!     My  brother!     Oh,  my  friend! 

The  end  !    What  have  I  done !    Unsatisfied ! 

And  you,  what  have  you  done?     Betrayed  he  died! 
Melissixde:    Horrible!     But  I  still  have  thee   .    .    .   thy  vows. 
Bertraxd:   Thou  hast  the  traitor!     Oh,  a  worthy  spouse! 
Melissixde:  But  treachery,  if  Love  be  its  creator   .    .    . 
Bertraxd:    I  lack  the  beauty  of  a  daring  traitor! 

I  am  no  hero  whom  a  proud  crime  frees. 

I  am  a  child  led  by  a  passing  breeze; 

A  feeble  heart,  whose  life  when  all  is  said 

Is  treason,  good  or  bad  as  it  is  led ! 

A  facile  thing, — to  move  me  to  betray! 

I  belong  wholly  to  the  mood,  the  day, 

Why,  but  this  morning  I  was  madly  brave, — 

And  now  .  .  .  and  now  ...  I  am  a  perfume's  slave ! 

The  moment  wins  me !     Of  the  mood  I  am  wrought ! 

You  have  me?    Truly  who  has  me  has  naught! 

Poet  unstable,  toy  of  every  breeze, 

A  pool  that  still  reflects  the  thing  it  sees! 
Melissixde:   Bertrand,  remorse  misleads  you! 
Bertraxd:  Aye,  its  length 

Proves  that  I  lack  even  the  wretched  strength 

To  wear  a  crime  accomplished  like  a  crest! 

Yea,  my  remorse  is  weakness  like  the  rest! 

I,  least  of  wretches,  if  I  love  or  grieve, 

Do  good  or  evil, — never  I  achieve! 


THE  PRINCESS  EAR  AWAY  123 

Yea,  I  know  fair  impulsions.     I  can  thrill 
Making  the  promise  I  will  not  fulfill ! 
— His  long  devotion  cozened  at  the  end! 

0  crime  repentance  never  can  amend ! 
Melissinde:    Bcrtrand   .    .    , 

Bertrand:  Couldst  thou,  who  scest  naked  before  thy  ejes 

My  shame,  despise  as  I  myself  despise; 

Enchantress  whose  Circean  arts  have  led 

To  this  my  doom  for  a  caprice   .    .    • 
Melissinde:  He  said?  .    .    . 

He  saw  me  as  a  woman  bold  to  woo? 

For  crime,  remorse,  and  honour  lost,  he  knew, 

No  compensation  of  heroic  fashion. 

Saw  no  exalted,  all-embracing  passion? 

Did  I  alone  dream  only  Love  was  king? 

— For  this  we  did  so  horrible  a  thing! 
Bertrand  {frenzied)  :   Yes,  she  has  slain  my  soul! 

{He  falls  on  his  knees,  weeping.) 

No,  as  I  live 

1  said  it  not!  Thy  pardon!     O,  forgive! 
Since  what  is  done,  I  need  thy  lips!     Forever! 
It  is  impossible  we  two  should  sever! 

Let  thy  hair  shroud  the  shame  none  can  atone! 

I  dare  not   .    .    .    Oh,  I  cannot   ...   be  alone! 
Melissinde  :  No.     Leave  me  I     'Tis  too  late.     In  vain  you  cling. 

— For  this  we  did  so  horrible  a  thing! — 

Unhappy,  can  I  scorn  thee,  when  in  me 

Myself  is  more  deceived  than  I  in  thee? 

Forgetting  in  my  arms!     No  task  supreme! 

I  was  divided  'twixt  desire  and  dream. 

O  vast  unrest!     Alas,  alas,  my  soul, 

Where  shall  I  find  the  good  that  makes  thee  whole? 

Immortally  thirst  and  famished, 

Where  is  thy  spring,  O  thirst?     Where,  hunger,  is  thy  bread? 
Bertrand:  All's  ended. 
Melissinde:  Ended. 


124  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Bertrand:  Melissinde.   .    .    . 

Melissixde:  Bertrand   .    .    . 

Bertrand:  Oh,  what  he  suffered,  dying!    .    .    .   At  my  hand! 
Melissinde  {going  to  the  window)  : 

0  dear  betrayed,  I  come!    To  seek  the  sight 
Of  thy  dear  corpse ! 

{With  a  great  cry.)  Bertrand!    The  sail  is  white! 

Bertrand:   God! 

Melissinde:  But  they  said   .    .    .  we  heard   .    .    . 

Bertrand  {who  has  rushed  to  the  window) :  The  gloomy  sail 

Was  hoisted  for  the  Knight  in  Emerald  Mail; 

Yonder  his  ship  speeds  for  Byzantium! 

But  our  ship  whitely  beckons  us  to  come! 

The  sail  is  white ! 
Melissinde  :  White  under  the  blue  heaven ! 

White  as  the  hope  of  pardon  !     God  !     Forgiven  I 

Prolong,  dear  God,  this  whiteness  seen  afar. 

For  that  white  sail  becomes  my  highest  star! 

The  duty  I  denied  rings  like  a  bell! 

1  come  to  thee!     I  come,  Joffroy  Rudel! 

I  come!     And  dying  thou  art  dear  to  me 
By  all  the  ill  I  almost  did  to  thee! 

{Curtain) 


FOURTH   ACT 

Same  setting  as  for  the  First  Act.  The  hour  of  rose  and  gold 
that  precedes  the  sunset.  Joffrey  Rudel,  in  the  same  place,  on 
his  pallet.  More  ghastly  than  in  the  morning,  his  eyes  still  fixed 
upon  the  shore,  completely  immobile.  At  his  side,  watchful, 
Erasmus.  Kneeling,  his  head  sunk  in  his  hands,  Fra  Trophi- 
MUS,  at  the  foot  of  the  pallet.  To  Left  and  Right,  the  Mariners, 
much  incensed  against  Squarciafico,  who,  arms  crossed,  stands 
in  the  centre  of  the  scene;  he  turns,  head  bared,  toward  Joffrey 
Rudel;  he  is  concluding  a  speech.  An  angry  murmur  runs 
through  the  group.  The  Master  restrains  the  Mariners,  who  want 
to  set  upon  him. 

SCENE  I 

JoFFROY  Rudel,  Fra  Trophimus,  Erasmus,  Squarciafico, 
The  Mariners,  Bruno,  Bistagne,  Pegofat,  Tro- 
baldo,  Francois,  etc. 

Squarciafico:   So  I  have  told  you  what  I  came  to  say. 

She  loves  him;  he  loves  her.     So  both  delay. 
The  Mariners:   Enough!  Let's  throw  him  over! 
The  Master  {to  the  sailors) :  Hear  him  through! 

The  Mariners:    Coward!  He'll  kill  the  Prince!  What  would 

he  do? 
Squarciafico  (addressing  the  Prince)  :  Your  friend  Bertrand  .  .  . 
Pegofat:  Thou  liest! 

Squarciafico:  The  Princess  ..  .    . 

Bruno:   The  Princess!    Never! 
Francois:  'Tis  false!     He  lies! 

The  Master:  No  less 

Let  him  say  on. 

(JoFFROY  Rudel  has  not  moved  a  muscle  and  his  eyes  still 
seek  the  shore.) 

US 


126  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Squarciafico  {more  loudly  and  defiantly) '.   This  knave   .    .    . 
Bistagne:  'Tis  thou! 

Squarciafico  :  My  word ! 

The  two  are  mad  for  love.     Prince,  have  you  heard? 

While  still  your  heart  awaits  your  messenger    .    .    . 
Erasmus  :   The  Prince  is  weak.     He  does  not  hear  you,  sir. 
Squarciafico:  To  torture  this  Sir  Bertrand,  I  have  tried 

To  make  the  Prince  hear  all  before  he  died. 

That  were  the  sweetest  vengeance  I  could  wreak! 
Erasmus:   The  Prince  no  longer  hears,  nor  can  he  speak. 

Only  his  eyes  are  living. 
Squarciafico:  He  must  know! 

Oh,  but  he  must! 
Erasmus:  He  hears  not. 

Era  Trophimus  {lifting  his  eyes  to  heaven)  :    Better  so! 
Squarciafico  {to  The  Master):    Hell's  fury! — You  at  least 
need  not  be  dumb. 

If,  weeping,  this  vile  hypocrite  should  come 

Kneeling  beside  the  dead  man  he  betrayed. 

Tell  him  his  punishment  was  not  delayed ; — 

That  Rudel  cursed  him,  having  heard  this  thing! 
The  Master  {to  The  Mariners,  indicating  Squarciafico)  : 

Now  you  can  take  this  man  and  let  him  swing. 
Squarciafico:   What? 

The  Mariners:  Kill  him!     Blasphemer!     Liar! 
Pegofat:  The  caitiff  puts 

Evil  upon  the  Princess. 
Squarciafico:  But  .    .    . 

Bruno:  No  "buts!" 

No  man  shall  live  who  touches  the  Princess. 
Francois:   She  will  come! 
Bistagne:  'Tis  sure. 

Troraldo:  We  have  his  word,  no  less; 

Sir   Bcrtrand's  word! 
Squarciafico:  Listen   ...  ye  do  mistake!  .    .    . 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  127 

Pecofat:   You  must  have  weighty  interests  at  stake 

To  make  this  lie! 
Squarciafico:  Hotheatls  without  a  brain! 

Bruno:    You'll  never  bring  bad  news  aboard  again! 
Squarciafico:   But   .    .    . 

Marrias  :   You'd  snatch  hope  from  the  dying  agony  ? 
Squarciafico:    But  .    .    . 
Francois  :  Thou'dst  tell  him  he  will  never  live  to  see 

Her  whom  he  lives  to  see? 
Squarciafico:  But  .    .    . 

Squarciafico:  Thy  malice  hopes 

So  to  besmirch  our  idol? 
Squarciafico:  'Tis  a  friend  who  opes 

Your  eyes! 
Trobaldo:   And  if  we  want  'em  closed?    We  make  tlic  rules. 
Squarciafico:   But  you  are  fools! 

Juan:  And  if  we  would  be  fools? 

Francois:  Thou'dst  take  away  our  Princess  far  away? 

Good !     At  the  yard-arm  let  his  body  sway ! 
Pegofat:  No!    Chop  his  head  off! 

Bruno:  No!    Slow  tortures,  man! 

Francois:   Let's  hack  his  feet  off!    Ho,  my  Catalan! 
Squarciafico:  Oh!    Oh! 

Bistagne:  Tear  out  his  tongue! 

Squarciafico  {in  a  faint  voice)  :    Ah! 
Trobaldo:  Slit  his  nose! 

Squarciafico:   No! 
Pegofat:    Let's  try  the  trick  the  Northern  seaman  knows; — 

Clout  his  hand  to  the  mask,  by  sticking  through 

A  knife,  well  ground;  you  pierce  it  straight  and  true. 

Then  he  himself,  beneath  the  lash,  must  free 

His  hand, — and  not  too  gently,  so,  you'll  see! — 

'Twill  slit  clear  to  the  fingers! 
Squarciafico:  I\Iy  hand!     Woe! 

Pegofat  {tranquilly)  :    Sometimes,  they  leave  a  piece  that  won't 
let  go. 


128  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Squarciafico :   I  am  citizen  of  Genoa! 

(All  the  Mariners  let  go  of  him  and  fall  back.) 
Bruno:   Hein!    What? 
Fr.'^ncois  :  Oh ! 

Bistagxe:  Ah! 

Trobaldo;  The  devil! 

Pegofat:    We  nearly  wrought  irremediable  evil! 

My  lord  is  Genoese! 

{All  bow  before  Squarciafico.) 
Squarciafico  {reassured  and  insolent  once  more)  :   Ah-hah! 

{Looking  about  with  mocking  confidence.)     Genoese! 

{All  bow  once  more.) 
Bruno   {straightening  himself  up)  :  But  .    .    . 

{Changing  his  tone,  and  laying  hold  on  Squarciafico) 

I  care  no  more  than  for  a  rotten  nut! 
Squarciafico  {aghast):    Hein? 
Francois  {shoving  him  toward  the  rail)  : 

Swim  to  Genoa,  then,  thou  Genoese! 
Squarciafico:    Help!     Help! 
Fra  Trophimus  {running):   Enough! 
Pegofat  :  No  prayer  helps  such  as  these  I 

Nay,  let  him  swim!     He's  not  sewed  in  a  sack! 
Squarciafico  {clawing  the  rail  madly)  :  I  have  money!   .    .    . 
The  Mariners:  Heave  him  in! 

Squarciafico:  Gold!    Red  gold! 

Marrias  :  Whack ! 

(Squarciafico  hits  the  ivater.) 
Fra  Trophimus:  What  have  you  done? 
Bruno:  Drowned!    That's  the  last  of  him! 

Francois  {to  Fra  Trophimus):  Let  be!     A  rascal!     Let  him 

swim ! 
Voice  of  Squarciafico  {taunting  from  the  water)  :   I  swim! 
Bistagne:   Good!    Wait! 

{lie  seizes  a  bow.  tightens  and  aims  it.) 
Fra  Trophimus:   No!    No! 
The  Mariners:  Yes!     Take  good  aim! 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  129 

{Everybody  has  crowded  close  to  the  rail.  R'lglit,  and  leans 
over,  watching  Squarciafico,  as  he  swims  toivard  shore. 
Erasmus  alone  stays  at  the  Prince's  side.    Joi-froy  Rudel 
has  not  seemed  conscious  of  what  has  passed.) 
Erasmus:  Hilloa! 

The  Prince!     Look  at  him!     What  has  changed  him  so? 

(Everybody    turns   and   sees   Joffroy    Rudel,    who    slowly 
raises  his  hand,  pointing  to  something  very  far  away.) 
Fra  Trophimus:    He  has  seen  something? 

Pegofat:  What  is  it  he  shows? 

Bruno:    Oh!     He  is  right!     Look,  yonder!     Something  rose, — 

Rose-pink  and  gold!     It  moves! 
Francois:  He  is  right,  by  all  the  powers! 

Look!     Out  at  sea,   ...   a  garden  full  of  flowers! 

{A  burst  of  music  reaches  them.) 
Bistagne:    Noel!     The  Genoese  lied  mightily! 

No  doubt!     No  doubt!    .    .    .   That  music!     It  is  She! 
Pegofat:   A  golden  galley  shedding  golden  light! 
Bruno   (running  madly  about  and  embracing  everybody)  : 

'Tis  She,  I  tell  you!     She!    Almost  in  sight! 

(The  Mariners  crowd  the  gunwales,  they  climb  the  masts, 
they  perch  in  the  rigging  and  wave  wildly.) 
Fra  Trophimus  (falling  on  his  knees) : 

Father,  we  thank  Thee,  Who  hast  heard  our  prayer 

That  Thy  child,  dying,  should  not  taste  despair! 
Pegofat:   She  comes!    'Tis  She!    The  purple  pennants  float! 
Bruno:   Sail  of  vermillion  samite! 
Francois  :  All  the  boat 

Is  wreathed  with  bloom ! 
Bistagne:  No  pinnancc  but  a  bower! 

See,  the  maintop,  a  garden  all  in  flower! 
Trobaldo:  Hark  to  the  viols! 
Bruno:  All  her  canvas  spread! 

And,  look!  the  very  oars  engarlanded ! 
Pegofat:    When  from  the  blades  the  shining  drops  they  shake 

A  shower  of  petals  follow  in  their  wake ! 


130  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  Mariners:    Seest  thou  the  Princess?     Where?     Where? 
Yes,  'tis  She, 
Erect,  beneath  that  scarlet  canopy! 
Juan  :  Ah,  beautiful ! 
The  Master:  Swift,  swift  the  galley  glides! 

Foam  sprays  the  Persian  rugs  along  its  sides. 
Erasmus:    Lute,  harp,  and  dulcimer  ...  I  make  them  out. 
Fra  Trophimus:   The  Queen  of  Sheba. 

Marrias:  Let's  wave  our  arms!    And  shout! 

All   {waving  frantically)  :    Melissinde!     Princess!     Glory!     It 
is  She! 
The  Princess!     Noel! 
Erasmus:  What  has  come  over  me? 

It  takes  me  by  the  gorge ! 
{He  shouts.)  Noel! 

{He  turns  to  Fra  Trophimus.)     I  cried! 
Fra  Trophimus  {pressing  his  hand)  : 

And  like  the  rest,  tears  in  your  eyes,  undried! 
The  Master:   Their  three-banked  galley  grapples  us!  Be  wary! 
Widen  that  bulwark, — entrance  for  our  Fairy! 
{With  axes  the  men  fall  to  work,  enlarging  the  opening  in 
the  bulwark.) 
Fra  Trophimus:  The  Prince!      His  mantle!    Swift!    We  must 
prepare  him. 
{Low.)     And  that  we  may  prepare  her,  let  us  bear  him 
A  little  further  back.    .    .    .    For  our  poor  Prince, 
Livid  .    .   .  eyes  glazed  .   .   .  might  make  the  bravest  wince! 
The  Master:  There  She  is! 

Pegofat:  Quick!     Our  cloaks  beneath  her  feet! 

{On  the  deck,  they  make  a  path  for  her  with  the  tattered  gar- 
ments torn  from  their  shoulders.) 
All  {their  voices  husky)  :  Don't  crowd!    Stand  back! 

You'd  touch  her!     'Tis  not  meet! 
Silence! — Line  up! — Kneel! — She! 
{A  great  silence.     The  violins  are  hushed.    The  Galley  stops 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  131 

noiselessly ;  clouds  of  incense  rise;  and  under  the  scarlet 
canopy,  Melissinde  appears.     She  stands  for  a  moment, 
motionless.) 
A  Sailor  (in  the  silence,  says  softly)  :    The  Virgin  Blest! 

{Two  Sarracen  slaves  come  fonvard  to  unroll  before  Melis- 
sinde a  rich  carpet.  She  checks  them  with  a  gesture, — 
and  in  a  voice,  full  of  emotion)  : 

SCENE  II 

The  Same.     Melissixde,  Sorismonde,  Ladies-in-Waiting,  Chil- 
dren, Slaves,  etc.;  later,  Bertrand 

Melissinde  :    No !    No !    This  tattered  serge  is  far  the  best ! 

{She  advances  very  slowly ;  looking  about  her  with  stupefac- 
tion. The  Ladies  of  her  Househould  range  themselves 
noiselessly  in  the  background;  the  musicians  remain  on  the 
galley;  Erasmus  and  Era  Trophimus  stand  so  that  they 
conceal  from  her  JoiTROY  RuDEL,  icho  seems  unconscious; 
his  eyes  are  closed.) 
Melissinde   {ovenvhelmed  by  all  that  she  sees)  : 

This  ship!     These  kneeling  people!     Are  we  dreaming? 
These  poor  ones  kneel!     And  oh,  their  tears  are  streaming! 
Could  I  imagine  such  great  misery? 
{To  the  Mariners.)     O,  my  Friends! 
Pegofat  :  It  was  She  who  said  that !  She ! 

Melissinde  {advancing)  :   Oh,  all  these  poor  ones,  tattered,  sick, 
forlorn, — 
Joy! — joy  for  me! — in  their  hurt  eyes  is  born! 
Sweeten  such  sorrow?     Me?   .    .    .    My  heart  must  break! 
Could  I  have  guessed,  though  Bertrand  for  their  sake, 
Told  all  their  story?     Could  it  waken  me? 
What's  told  is  nothing!    We  must  come  and  see! 
{With  an  involuntary  shudder.) 
But  he   .    .    .   Joffroy  Rudcl? 
Fra  Trophimus;  Madam,  be  brave! 


132  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

He  is  so  ill — he  looks  so  ill. — We  crave 

Time  to  prepare  you  .    .    . 
Melissinde  :  Ah !  .   .   .  I  am  calm,  you  see ! 

Fra  Trophimus  {standing  aside  and  signing  to  Erasmus  to  do 

likewise):     Then,  Princess,  come! 
Melissinde  (seeing  Rudel)  :  Oh,  God! 

(She  falls  on  her  knees,  sobbing.)         For  me!     For  me! 

(She  weeps  silently.     RuDEL  opens  his  eyes;  seeing  her,  they 
widen  and  grow  bright,  and  a  smile  illumines  his  face.) 
Erasmus:   Oh,  look! 
Melissinde:        That  smile!     He  waited  all  that  weary  while! 

To  think — to  think — I  might  have  missed  that  smile! 
Fra  Trophimus  :   See,  we  have  dressed  him  in  his  robes  of  state. 

He  knew  that  you  would  come  or  soon  or  late. 

He  neither  hears  nor  speaks;  we  hardly  durst 

Believe  he  saw.    And  yet,  he  saw  you  first! 
Melissinde  (still  kneeling,  and  gazing  at  him)  : 

During  the  dire  delay,  he  trusted  me! 

He  never  doubted ! 
Pegofat:  No! 

Bruno:  No  more  than  we! 

Melissinde:   No  more  than  you ? 
The  Master  :  Damn  you  to  flame  undying. 

Be  still! 
Francois  (emphatically) :  Not  all  the  time  the  Genoese  was  lying! 
Melissinde  (terrified):  The  Genoese?    Before  him? 
Bertrand  (who  a  mornent  before  has  appeared  on  deck)  : 

Wretch !  .  .   .  Could  such  woe  befall  ?  .   .  . ' 
Fra  Trophimus  (to  Melissinde)  :  But  he  heard  nothing. 
JoFFROY  Rudel  (in  a  weak  voice)  :        Yea,  I  heard  it  all. 
Melissinde  (wringing  her  hands):    O  God!     What  could  you 

think?     My  anguish  mounts!    .    .    . 
JoFFROY  (gently) :  I  thought:  what  is't  this  wicked  fool  recounts? 

— But  I  spoke  not  a  word,  not  even  low, — 

For  you  were  coming!     It  behooved  me,  so, 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  133 

— For  words  are  counted  when  the  breaths  oppress, — 

To  keep  my  words,  each  one,  for  the  Princess. 
Melissinde:  God! 
JoFFROY  Rudel:   Though  I  heard  him  that  was  only  part. 

I  looked  to  land.     1  felt,  deep  in  my  heart, 

That  if  I  looked  to  land,  always,  always, 

My  mute  regard  a  clarion  voice  would  raise; 

That  its  sole  fixity,  its  strength  of  faith, 

Would  surely  draw  you  to  me  ere  my  death. 

Aye,  though  a  charm  had  held  you  in  jour  home! 
Melissinde:   Oh! 
JoFFROY :  And  you  see !    You  see  that  you  have  come ! 

{He  sees  Bertrand.) 

Grace,  Bertrand !    Where's  thy  hand  ? 

(Bertrand,   pushed  by   Fra  Trophimus.   comes  forivard 
and  trembling  puts  his  hand  in  that  of  Rudel.) 

Thou  knewest   ...   no  danger   .    .    . 

That  the   .    .    .    false  witness  of  an  evil  stranger 

Would  make  me  wrong  thee  by  a  single  thought  ? 
Melissinde:  O,  noble  trust! 
Joffroy:  Repaid!    The  rest  is  naught! 

For  j'ou  are  here !     ]\Iy  dream !     It  did  not  fail ! 

{With  a  smile.) 

The  Princess  comes!     O  thou  my  Princess,  hail! 

{He  closes  his  eyes,  exhausted.) 
Erasmus:    His  strength  is  spent,  but  he  will  rally.     Wait! 
Bertrand  {in  a  heavy  voice  to  Fra  Trophimus)  : 

God!     I  must  tell  him  ere  it  is  too  late! 
Fra  Trophimus:   Tell  what,  my  son? 

(Bertrand  hangs  his  head.)    Thou  seekst  thine  own  relief! 

Coward  confession,  to  assuage  thy  grief! 

Trouble  his  dying,  for  thy  shame's  surcease? 

Nay,  be  thou  silent;  let  him  die  in  peace! 
Bertrand:   But  soon  he'll  know  I  have  betrayed  his  faith! 
Fra  Trophimus:    His  soul,  wrapt  in  the  solemn  peace  of  death, 


134  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Knowing,  but  full  of  Christian  tenderness, 

Will  know  thy  soul,  pity  its  wretchedness. 
Melissixde:  Let  him  come  back,  my  God !    For  he  has  shown 

My  soul  true  faith.     His  dream  becomes  my  own. 

Trusting  a  flower,  its  bloom  we  sooner  see: 

The  lady  he  believes  me,  I  will  be! 

I'll  soothe  his  dying  for  a  penance  fit ; — 

So  much  the  better  if  I  shrink  from  it! 

This  poet,  O  I  swear  it  by  the  rood. 

Gently  shall  slip  from  life's  inquietude; 

My  smile  shall  hold  him  in  a  golden  mesh 

The  while  he  treads  the  dark  path  of  all  flesh. 

Beauty  shall  strive  against  Death's  brutal  powers. 

If  his  eyes  open,  petals,  fall  in  showers ; 

Perfumes,  in  misty  vapors  soft  ascend; 

Ye  songs  of  harps,  'neath  harpers'  fingers,  blend 

With  our  pure  love ;  and  yet  be  thou  no  less 

A  drug  to  lull  to  chastest  drunkenness. 
Erasmus:   The  Prince's  eyes  are  open. 

{Flower  petals  fall  in  soft  shoivcrs  about   him;   the   music 
sounds;  censers  swing.) 
Melissinde  {leaning  above  him)  :    Prince  Joffroy  Rudcl   .    .    . 
JoFFROY :   'Twas  not  a  dream. 
Melissinde:  I  came.    You  called  me  well. 

I  knew  your  love  and  its  long  constancy ! 

Long  since,  I  knew  it!     It  was  sung  to  me 

By  pilgrims; — aye  and  jonglers  told  the  tale! 

Thy  love  was  like  our  palm  trees,  when  a  gale 

Blows  to  a  blossoming  tree  from  some  far  beach 

Its  mating  blossom.    ...    So  your  thoughts  could  reach 

My  own,  borne  on  the  winds.     The  tears  that  seemed  most 
vain 

Fell,  warm,  upon  my  hands.    ...    I  felt  them  plain ! 

But,  since  you  wished   to  know  the  loved   Unknown, 

And  since  you  called,  I  came; — so  strong  has  grown 

Your  love's  dominion :    I  have  come,  among 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  A IV AY  135 

The  perfumes  of  this  censer  slowly  swung, 
Perfumes  compact  of  every  summer  flower, 
While  chimes  the  bell  from  far  Tortosa's  tower, 
And  dulcimer  and  lute  unite  to  say, 
"Rejoice!     Rejoice!    It  is  their  wedding  day!" 
JoFFROY  {dazzled)  :    Can  this  life  hold  this  perfect  happiness? 

Melissinde:    How  do  you  find  the  far  away  Princess? 
Joffroy:   I  look  at  her,  all  dazzled !    Every  prayer  .   .   . 
Every  least  wish,  come  true!     Her  shining  hair 
Escapes  its  bonds,  bright  waves  that  float  and  cling! 
My  last  sun  laughs,  reflected  in  her  ring! 
O  slender  throat,  trembling  'neath  gems  the  while ! 
O  unknown,  well-known  magic  of  her  smile! 
Her  voice,  the  tumult  of  a  hidden  spring, 
Fresh  water  after  weary  wandering! 
Her  eyes,  whose  gaze  I  came  so  far  to  win, 
So  deep  they  are  that  I  am  drowned  therein! 

Melissinde  {putting  her  ring  on  his  finger)  : 
See,  on  your  hand  my  ring  of  amethyst, — 
Fit  emblem  of  our  mournful,  happy  tryst. 
{Putting  her  necklace  about  his  throat.) 
And  on  thy  neck,  my  collar  with  its  blason. 
{Loosing  all  her  hair  around  him.) 
And  here,  love,  is  my  hair,  O  thou  new  Jason, 
The  Golden  Fleece  you  sought,  at  such  a  price 
Of  struggle,  anguish,  sighs  and  sacrifice! 
Pilgrim  of  love,  who  sang  in  far  off  lands. 
Here  are  the  hands  you  praised.     Hold  thou  my  hands! 
And  since  such  tones  thy  dreams  perchance  would  lend  her. 
Hark  to  thy  Lady's  voice,  submissive,  tender!    .    .    . 

Joffroy:    You  fear  my  eyes,  their  glassy,  dull  disguise? 

Melissinde:    Here  are  my  lips,  dear  love,  upon  your  eyes. 

Joffroy:    My  lips  affright  you,  parched  by  fever's  drought? 

IMelissinde:  And  now,  here  is  my  mouth  upon  your  mouth. 
{Silence.) 

Joffroy  {calling):    Bertrand! 


136  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

(As  Bertrand  draws  near;  to  Melissinde,  indicating  the 

Mariners  who  surround  Bertrand)  : 

I  made  these  friends,  these  mariners,  a  vow, — 

I'd  tell  thee  of  their  hearts  towards  me. 

{Too  weak  to  continue,  he  signs  to  Bertrand.)    Speak  thou! 
Bertrand:   Couldst  thou  but  know  these  men,  uncouth  and  wild, 

See  'neath  their  tan,  the  spirit  of  a  child! 

Ah,  love  these  simple  conquerors  of  the  ocean. 

Who  won  the  Prince  his  dream  by  sheer  devotion! 

They  are  like  blossoms  on  rude  thistles  borne, — 

An  azure  heart  bestead  with  many  a  thorn. 
Melissinde  :  1  smile  on  them  .    .    . 
JoFFROY :  I  quake  with  cold ! 

Melissinde  :  Joffroy, 

You  are  in  my  arms,  held  close   .    .    . 
Joffroy  :  No  chills  annoy !   .    .    . 

By  mortal  agony  I  am  oppressed ! 

Are  you  there? 
Melissinde:  You  are  cradled  on  my  breast, 

Soft,  like  a  little  child! 
Joffroy:  I  am  not  afraid. 

Melissinde:   Dream  of  our  love;  its  holy  height  displayed 

Above  all  love;  the  glory  we  command; 

That  I  am  here;  that  I  am  Melissinde. 

Tell  me  again  you  love  me,  and  how  far! 
Joffroy:   I  die! 

Melissinde:        My  pearls,  above  you,  like  a  star! 
Joffroy:    Your  heavenly  throat!     Oh,  darkness!     Dizziness! 

I  see  naught   .    .    .   and  I  go   .    .    . 
Melissinde:  Cling  to  my  dress. 

Hold  fast!     My  tresses  all  about  you  flow! 
Joffroy:   Your  hair!    Ah,  still  your  hair!     I'll  not  let  go! 

Its  fragrance  wraps  me  round.   .    .    . 
Melissinde  {to  Fra  Trophimus)  :   Good  Priest,  Alas! 

Ought  30U,  alone,  to  watch  his  spirit  pass? 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  137 

Fra  Trophimus:    No,  Lady.     Love  is  holy.     'Tis  God's  road. 

Who  dies  for  love  dies  in  the  grace  of  God. 
Melissinde:   Joffroy  Rudel,  our  love  knew  heavenly  things. 

Our  meeting  souls  have  touched  each  other's  wings! 
Joffroy:  Your  cope,  bedecked  with  gold  and  many  a  stone, 

I  wish  to  touch  it!  .   .    .  Icy  to  the  bone, 

My  fingers  feel  not  jewel  nor  orfray; 

My  hands  are  dead  already.  .    .    . 
Fra  Trophimus:  Let  us  pray! 

{Everybody  gathers  around  him.) 
Melissinde  (dolorously):   Ho! 
Fra  Trophimus:  Profiscere  an'ima  .    .    . 

{The  prayer  is  heard  in  quiet  murmurs.) 
Joffroy:  I  am  dying! 

Melissinde:   Harp,  softly  sing  and  soothe  his  spirit's  sighing. 

(Soft  music.) 
Joffroy:   Speak,  for  your  voice  is  music,  and  to  prove  you 

Are  near.     Dying,  I  have  my  dream. 
Melissinde  {her  arms  about  him)  :  I  love  you. 

Fra  Trophimus:  Deus  clemens  .    .    . 

{Murmurs  of  the  prayers  and  soft  whisperings  of  the  harps.) 
Joffroy:  Speak  on,  lest  I  should  hear 

The  stealthy  step   .    .    .   the  step  that  draws  so  near   .    .    . 

Speak  on,  and  I  will  die  and  never  flinch. 
Fra  Trophimus:   Libera,  Domine   .    .    . 

{Murmur  of  harps.) 
Melissinde  :  Among  my  terebinths. 

Dear  love,  at  twilight,  dreaming, — it  was  you 

My  spirit  yearned  for.     Mid  my  blossoms  blue 

At  morning,  seated  'neath  my  myrtle  tree, 

*Twas  you  to  whom  I  whispered  silently. 
Joffroy:    Speak!     Speak! 

Fra  Trophimus:  Ex  omjiibus  periculis  .    .    . 

Melissinde:    Tall  lilies  led  me  where  my  garden  is, — 

And  when  one  bent,  it  seemed  to  me  a  sign 


138  PLAYS  OF  EDMUND  ROSTAND 

That  I  could  trust  that  confidant  divine,  ... 

That  love  so  royal  need  not  be  dissembled 

To  my  pure  lilies  who  bent  low  and  trembled ! 
Joffroy:   Speak,  for  your  voice  is  music !    "Bent  above  you"  .  .  . 

Speak  on.    .    .    . 
JVIelissinde:  I  told  my  lilies  that  I  love  you. 

Joffroy:    I  go.     My  Dream  was  truth.     I  found  my  Star. 

Grace,  Lord  of  life!     Grace,  Melissinde!  .   .   .  There  are 

So  many  whom  the  froward  fates  betray,   ... 

Who  never  find  their  Princess  far  away! 
Melissinde  {cradling  him  in  her  arms)  : 

How  many  see  too  closely  and  too  long, — 

Die  disenchanted, — a  more  cruel  wrong! 

Better  to  part  when  hearts  are  fresh  and  fond 

Than  see  it  fade, — the  freshness  of  the  bond. 

And  my  embrace  has  strangeness  in  its  sweetness ; — 

The  Stranger  with  the  Sister,  there's  completeness! 

We  two  will  never  know  a  graying  glory  ; 

The  Adored  will   never  be  an  oft  told  story. 

Still,  still  afar,  who  could  from  far  adore, 

When  thy  eyes  close  to  open  nevermore 

Thou'lt  see  me  always,  wrapt  in  light  sublime, 

For  the  first  time, — forever  the  first  time! 
Joffroy:    Hail  and  farewell,   Princess,  my  one  desire! 
Fra  Trophimus:   Libera,  Domine   .    .    . 

Melissinde  {standing,  lifts  him  up  in  her  arms,  toward  the  glory 
that  shines  upon  the  sea  with  the  crimson  and  purple  of  the 
setting  sun)  : 

The  heavens  are  on  fire! 

Poet  and  Prince,  right  fitting  is  thy  death; 

Upheld  by  her  you  loved  with  your  last  breath ; 

In  love,  in  grace,  in  majesty,  my  Prince, 

Thou  diest,  blest  of  God! 

Thou  nccdst  not  wince 

At  wax  and  phials,  symbols  sinister. 

Nay!    Thou  hast  flowers  and  strains  of  dulcimer 


THE  PRINCESS  FAR  AWAY  139 

To  sweeten  death,  and  speed  tliy  spirit  free 

While  the  sun  sinks  in  splendour  on  the  sea! 

(JoiFROY   RuDEL  is  dead.     His  head  sinks   on   his  breast. 
Gently  she  lays  him  down.     Fra  Trophimus  comes  for- 
ward. ) 
Melissinde:    Close  not  his  eyes.     He  sees  me  in  his  sleep. 
SoRiSMONDE  {affrighted)  :    He  holds  thy  hair.  ...  He  keeps  it! 
Melissinde  :  And  shall  keep ! 

{With  a  dagger  drawn  from  the  dead  man's  girdle,  she  cuts 
off  her  long,  shining  locks  and  Rudel's   hands  fall  back 
and  gather  it  about  him.) 
Bertrand:    It  is  too  much! 

Melissinde  {without  turning  toward  him)  :   Who  speaks  thus? 
Bertrand  :  'Tis  too  much ! 

Melissinde:    You,  Bertrand?    All  we  owe!     Naught  must  we 
clutch ! 

W^arp  with  the  weaving,   I  abjure  the  whole! 

My  soul  at  last  has  served  another's  soul 

And  I  am  different.     What  I  would  reject, 

What  hold,  attest  this  single  deed's  effect! 

Love's  roses,  dreams'  white  lilies,  all  are  less 

Than  the  soul's  springtime,  self-forgetfulness! 

And  lest  this  springtime  fail  in  summer's  heat. 

Mount  Carmel's  path  shall  know  my  climbing  feet! 
Bertrand:   Alas! 
Melissinde  {to  the  Mariners)  : 

Your  task,  O  Sailors,  is  achieved. 

Your  rags,  your  hunger,  swift  must  be  relieved ! 

You  must  have  raiment,  bread!     O,  take  ye  them! 

{She  tears  handsful  of  jeicels  from  her  mantle.) 

Take  rubies,  sapphires,  beryl,  every  gem ! 

See,  I  tear  off  these  jewels,  heavy,  vain ! — 

Gather  them !     Not  in  payment  for  your  pain, 

Ah,  ye  can  take  them,  friends!  I  shall  repay 

Your  love  with  love.     There  is  no  other  way! 

And  here  is  chrysolite;  here,  opals  shine! 


140  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

My  heart  is  there,  among  these  gems  of  mine! 

A  snow  of  pearls!    A  rain  of  diamonds  bright! 

— Ah!     Now  my  mantle  is  divinely  light! 
Bertrand:   And  I?    What  shall  I  do? 
Melissinde  :  With  these  men,  go 

Fight  for  the  Cross! 
All  the  Mariners:    For  the  Cross!     Onward!     Ho! 
The  Master:   To-morrow,  we  will  burn  on  yonder  reef 

Our  glorious  ship. 
Trobaldo  {pointing  to  Bertrand)  :  And  follow  this  our  Chief! 
Bertrand:    Upon  the  Sepulchre  we'll  pluck  our  Palm. 
Melissinde  {going  back  toward  her  galley)  : 

God  guard  you!    Weep  not!     Peace  shall  be  my  balm. 

I  have  learned  at  last  why  life  to  souls  is  given   .    .    . 
Fra  Trophimus  {kneeling  by  the  body  of  Joffroy)  : 

Yes,  true  love's  travail  does  the  work  of  heaven. 

{Curtain) 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA 

An  Evangel  in  Three  Parts 

In  Verse 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA 


LIST  OF  CHARACTERS 

Jesus. 

Photine, 

The  Three  Spectres. 

Peter. 

John. 

James. 

Andrew. 

Nathaniel. 

Bartholomew. 

Judas, 

AZRIEL. 

The  Centurion. 

The  Priest. 

A  Shepherd, 

A  Merchant. 

Another. 

The  Keeper  of  the  Gate. 

Young  Men. 

The  Ancients. 

Young  Girls. 

Women. 

Courtesans. 

Children. 

Disciples,  Roman  Soldiers,  Merchants,  Artisans. 

All  the  Samaritan  People. 


FIRST  PART 

Jacob's  Well 

At  the  intersection  of  two  highways  which  go,  the  one  toward 
Mesopotamia,  the  other  toward  the  Great  Sea,  Jacob's  Well,  not 
far  from  the  town  of  Sichem  in  Samaria. 

A  huge,  oblong  well.     A  low  curb  on  which  one  may  sit. 

A  half-ruinous  vault  of  stone  still  makes  an  arch  over  this  well, 

A  rude  well-sweep,  with  a  cord  by  which  water  pots  are  low' 
ered  and  raised. 

A  huge  wild  fig  tree  spreads  its  branches  above  it.  There  is 
also  one  of  those  olive  trees  whose  leaves  are  more  silvery  in 
Samaria  than  anywhere  else.  Farther  away,  there  are  pine  trees 
and  the  slim  outlines  of  cypress  trees. 

At  the  back  is  a  dust-besprinkled,  grassy  slope  where  the  roads 
fork.  A  crooked  footpath  leads  downward  to  the  well,  and  behind 
the  slope  of  the  hill,  the  valley  of  Sichem  is  blue. 

Mount  Ebal  and  Mount  Gerizim  bound  the  horizon.  Gerizim 
lifts  toward  heaven  the  ruins  of  a  temple.  In  the  gap  that  divides 
the  mountains ,  Sichem  shows  the  square  outlines  of  its  houses. 

Such  will  be  the  scene,  when  day  breaks.  But  when  the  cur- 
tain rises,  it  is  night.  Beautiful,  clear  darkness.  Stars.  Near  the 
well,  in  the  black  darkness  of  the  vaulted  arch,  a  vast  phantom, 
with  the  white  beard  of  a  centenarian,  leans,  whitely,  on  a  staff. 
A  second  phantom  as  huge,  as  white,  stands  motionless  on  a  step. 
A  third,  like  the  other  two,  with  the  same  white  beard,  the  same 
shepherd's  staff,  advances  mysteriously. 

145 


146  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

SCENE  I 
The  Phantoms 

First  Shade  (gliding  toward  the  well)  : 

Borne  upon  the  night  wind's  swell, 

Vagabond  till  dawn  of  day, 

What  strange  power  do  I  obey, —  , 

Ghost  that  can  a  ghost  impell  ? 

I  come,  I  glimmer,  and  away. 

Noiselessly  my  sandals  fell.  .   .   . 

Great  I  AM  to  Whom  I  pray, 

Who  is  this  so  ghostly  gray, 

Standing  silent  at  the  well? 
Second  Shade  (to  the  first)  : 

White  beard,  in  this  night  of  dread. 

Wanderer  from  the  shores  of  hell, 

Where  a  moonless  sky  guards  well 

Meadows  that  know  no  lily  bell, — 

Art  thou  a  spectre? 
First  Shade:  Thou  hast  said! 

Second  Shade:   My  son,  thy  voice, — I  know  it  well. 
First  Shade:   Another  shadow  by  those  stones 

Spectral  and  white,  I  dimly  see. 

Immobile  phantom,  hearest  thou  me? 
Third  Shadow:    Father,  I  know  my  father's  tones. 
Second  Shade:   The  younger  son  I  love  so  well, 

Surely  I  know  that  voice,  O  hark! 
Third  Shadow:   Beloved  Father. 
First  Shade:  Patriarch! 

Third  Shade:   Abraham! 
Second  Shade:  Isaac! 

First  Shade:  Israel! 

Jacob:   By  what  sublime  command 

Do  our  dead  feet  now  firmly  stand 
On  the  good  earth  once  more? 


N 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  147 

Isaac:   Some  mighty  thing  is  planned. 

An  angel,  darkly  winged  and  grand, 

Loosed  with  an  all-compelling  hand 

Pale  Sheol's  door. 
Jacob  {to  Abraham)  :   What  newer  hope  is  born? 

Speak,  thou,  who  late  hast  trod 

Mamre's  star-guarded  plain. 

Have  messengers  again 

To  thy  wise  age  made  plain 

Plans  of  Almighty  God  ? 
Abraham  {to  Isaac)  :   Why  do  you  kiss  the  dust 

That  lies  along  the  way? 
Isaac:  I  kneel   because  I  must. 

Strange  dreams  my  spirit  sway. 
Abraham  {to  Jacob)  :   You  kiss  the  rocky  rim 

Your  own  hands  placed  of  yore. 
Jacob:    A  Presence,  wondrous,  dim. 

Compels  me  to  adore. 

You  breathe  the  very  air 

As  'twere  a  holy  thing. 
Abraham  :   I  meet, — and  kiss  it  there, — 

The  Voice  that  makes  it  ring. 
Isaac:  A  Voice,  thou  sayest,  sire? 
Abraham:    He  comes, — the  world's  Desire. 

Believe  the  token. 

This  night  on  Sheol's  shore, 

I  passed  his  couch  before, 

And  he  who  speaks  no  more, 

Moses — has  spoken. 
Jacob  {prostrating  himself,  with  Isaac)  : 

Softly  our  hearts  sing  psalms. 
Abraham:    Ere  o'er  the  sun-gilt  palms, 

Again  the  night  hangs  blue, 

Sichem,  will  come  to  you 

Sighs  sweeter  than  all  balms, 


148  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Gifts  beyond  royal  alms, 

The  power  that  stirred  death's  calms 

Declares  it  true. 
Jacob  (to  Isaac)  :  My  Father,  can  it  be 

Of  all  wells  built  by  hands, 

This  that  I  built  in  days  of  dearth 

Obtains  of  God  this  awful  worth, — 

That  by  its  brink  He  stands? 
Isaac:    Rejoice,  rejoice  with  holy  mirth, 

Son,  to  whose  happy  lot  it  fell 

To  build  salvation's  hallowed  well 

Where  future  ages  come  to  draw. 

Hither  will  thirsting  thousands  crowd. 

Thy  sire  and  grandsire  may  be  proud. 

A  robe  of  glory  is  thy  shroud 

Whose  like  man  never  saw. 

{The  stage  is  full  of  Phantoms.) 
Jacob:    Look  now  what  hosts  arise 

And  hither  come  to  draw. 

Broken  its  builder's  pitcher  lies. 

And  yet  I  see,  in  wistful  guise. 

Drawn  by  some  wondrous  law, 

Greater  than  death  can  be, 

Throngs  kiss  its  stones  with  awe! 

Marvel  without  a  flaw. 

The  grave  has  set  its  prisoners  free: 

Joseph  and  Joshua,  O  see. 
Abraham  :    Shadows  who  fill  the  misty  way. 

Kneel,  ghostly  ranks,  kneel,  kneel  and  pray. 

Here  at  the  Fount  of  Love! 

(A  light  dawns  in  the  east) 

The  day  star  now  begins  to  burn 

And  shades  to  shadow  must  return. 

When  glows  that  light  above. 
Jacob:    Soon  of  our  shadows  will  remain 

Less  than  a  cloud  bereft  of  rain. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  149 

Less  than  a  waking  dream, 

Three  floating  beards,  three  wreaths  of  mist, 

Dew-silver  by  the  sunbeams  kissed, 

A  vanished  whiff  of  steam, 
Isaac:   A  crowd  comes  from  afar. 

Samaritans  these  are. 

Weighted,  yet  driven,  by  fears. 
Abraham  :    Ages  have  looked  in  woe  on  them, 

Samaritans  who  through  the  years 

Tell  still  at  dawn  beneath  these  trees 

The  gnawing  hate  that  knows  no  ease 

Against  Jerusalem. 
Jacob:  Soft,  let  us  disappear!  ... 

But  witness,  earth  and  skies, 

Land  full  of  mysteries, 

Heaven  with  thy  myriad  eyes, 

Hills,  He  is  near. 

Winds,  hold  your  breath  to  hear. 

Well,  gush  His  draught  to  bear. 

Skies,  whose  wise  stars  must  know, 

Searching  my  well  below, 

Who  draws  so  near  its  rim; 

Breezes  that  lightly  skim 

Paths  whose  young  pine  trees  slim 

Bend  where  His  feet  will  tread, — 

Ye  saw  the  waiting  Dead. 

Now,  living  men  instead 

Wait  upon  Him. 

SCENE  n 

The  Priest,  Azriel,  Young  Men,  Old  Men.  Merchants,  etc. 
They  come  slowly,  like  a  mourning  train,  and,  stopping  at 
the  Well,  they  lament. 
A  Man  :    Here  is  the  well,  the  step,  the  curb,  that  mark 
The  labor  of  the  hallowed  patriarch, 


150  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  son  of  Isaac  and  of  Abraham, 

Whose  work  was  honored  of  the  Great  I  AM. 
Another:    Sadness  of  Leah, — these  flowers  breathe  of  it. 
Another:    In  this  dear  dust  did  Rachael's  shadow  flit. 
Another:   This  mountain  bore  God's  ark  upon  its  crest, 

The  while  its  bearers,  breathless,  stopped  to  rest. 
Another:    Caught  in  this  thicket  was  the  very  ram 

The  angel  showed  to  Father  Abraham. 
Another:    This  incense-laden  breeze,  this  sweet  perfume. 

Comes  from  the  flowers  that  grow  at  Joseph's  tomb. 
An  Old  Man  :   Here  Joshua  and  the  Tribes  set  up  their  stones. 
Another  Old  Man  :  That  scent  of  immortelles  our  history  owns. 
A  Young  Man  :   The  sun  is  golden  with  our  glories  here. 
The  Priest  :   So,  day  by  day  and  patient  year  on  year, 

Samaritans  and  men  of  Sichem,  still 

Hither  we  come  to  mourn  our  country's  ill. 
A  Man   {turning  toward  the  ruins  that  crown  Gerizim;  all,  fol- 
lowing his  example,  prostrate  themselves)  '. 

Gerizim's  temple,  whose  destruction  dire 

Filled  Zion's  courts  with  satisfied  desire, 

Still  to  their  hatred  are  its  stones  misprized! 
Another:  Always  they  see  in  us  a  sect  despised. 
Another:   To  the  true  faith,  say  they  with  malice  grim, 

We  hold  false  doctrines,  strange  to  Elohim, — 

Idols  grotesque,  and  doctrines  full  of  lies 

Soukkoth-Benoth,   .    .    . 
Another:  And  Zeboub,  god  of  flies. 

First  Old  Man;    Liars!  'tis  we  alone  who  keep  the  faith. 
Second  Old  Man  :  We  guard  the  very  word,  as  Moses  saith, 

True  pentateuch,  confined  in  faithful  brass. 
The  Priest:    Upon  the  threshold  that  no  man  may  pass, 

Writ  upon  sheepskin,  faithful  to  the  least 

Pen  stroke,  by  Abischouah    .    .    . 
First  Old  Man:  Son  of  the  high  priest    .     .     . 

He,  son  of  Aaron.    .    .    . 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  151 

Second  Old  Man:    Moses'  very  brother. 

A  Young  Man:   Why  are  we,  then,  despised  below  all  other? 

Another:    Burdened  and  hounded  by  the  public  scorn, 

Hated  beyond  the  veriest  reptile  born. 
The  Priest:    In  a  mean  hovel  we  must  house  our  cult. 
First  Old  Man  :    Romans  oppress  us,  and  the  Jews  insult. 
A  Max  :   The  Pharisee  his  cleansing  bowl  demands 

If,  on  his  walks,  our  wild  Howers  brush  his  hands. 
Another:   A  ceremonial  bath  his  body  frees 

From  the  polluting  shadow  of  our  trees. 
A  Young  Man:    'Tis  past  endurance! 
Another:  Added  to  this  thing 

Is  the  foul  shadow  of  the  Eagle's  wing. 
Another:    Let  us  revolt. 
A  Man:  Ah,  cultivate  our  vines! 

First  Old  Man  {to  the  speaker)  : 

While  shame  our  very  nation  undermines? 
The  Man:   Well,   .    .    . 

First  Old  Man:    Does  your  spirit  not  rebel  or  shrink? 
The  Man  :    I  try  to  drown  my  troubles   ... 
First  Old  Man  :  Yes,  in  drink. 

The  Man  :   Why  has  Mount  Ebal  on  its  noble  slopes 

So  many  vines,  if  not  to  feed  man's  hopes 

And  drown  his  cares?     I  am  like  Father  Noah. 

The  pagans  taught  me  how  to  shout  "Evo  ha!" 
AzRiEL  {who  Ufiiil  this  moment  has  rr/naincd  silent  and  dreamy)  : 

He's  right.     To  strive  is  vain. 
First  Old  Man:  Ah,  no,  not  vain, 

But  difficult.     Far  sweeter,  it  is  plain, 

To  lie  in  perfumed,  supple  arms.     My  son, 

By  noble  anger  human  rights  are  won. 

To  seek  Photine,  bewitched  by  all  the  tricks 

That  won  five  other  fools! 
Azriel:  Then  count  me  six. 

I  love  her,  yes, — and  what  remains  but  love? 


152  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Endless  and  hopeless  all  our  struggles  prove. 

If  one  true  leader  come, — here  is  my  sword; 

Meantime  {indicating  the  drunkard) 

our  drowsy  friend  has  given  the  word. 

He  finds  forgetfulness  in  sleepy  wine; 

A  subtler  draught  of  lips  and  eyes  is  mine. 
First  Old  Man  :  Always  we  meet  and  always  'tis  the  same. 

None  has  a  plan. 
A  Merchant:  Aye,  but  I  have  a  game; 

Flatter  the  Romans;  gain  them  bit  by  bit, — 

And  then  the  Jews.    Try  if  that  coat  will  fit. 
A  Man   {violently  thrusting  himself  forward  out  of  the  crowd)  : 

You  fear  disorder.     War's  an  ugly  word. 

It  ruins  trade.     You  love  the  Roman's  sword; 

It  guards  the  dirty  gold  upon  your  tray. 

What  though  its  flat  about  your  shoulders  play! 
The  Merchant:    Oh,  come  .    .    . 
The  Man:    Enough,  I  cry,  revolt,  without  delay! 

Judas  the  Gaulonite  has  led  the  way. 

Pay  no  more  taxes,  render  tithes  no  more, — 

Salt,  anise  cumin, — all  the  silly  store. 
The  Priest:  Thief  and  blasphemer!  rioting  for  gain!  .    .   . 

You  and  your  pack,  get  you  to  heel  again ! 

This  is  my  plan ;  bring  gold  and  still  more  gold, 

Rebuild  our  temple  as  it  was  of  old. 

To  our  long  history  add  this  splendid  page. 

The  Jews  would  storm,  Caiaphas  die  of  rage. 

We  were  avenged  if  on  Gerizim's  height 

The  feast  of  Purim  once  were  held  aright. 

Rebuild  tiie  temple,  friends.     Greatest  and  least 

Can  join  in  this  and  choose  a  great  High  Priest. 

Let  golden  stars  above  Gerizim's  height 

In  hammered  sihcr  domes  reflect  their  light. 
The  Merchant:    'Neath  that  soft  paw  a  glimpse  of  claws  I 
caught. 

IVhat  priest  will  set  Caiaphas  so  at  naught? 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  153 

You  want  to  wear  the  ephod,  fold  on  fold, 

The  broidered  purple  heavy  with  its  gold, 

Pomegranates  swaying  'twixt  the  golden  bells, 

The  people  pay, — if  he  the  people  sells. 
The  Priest:   Silence,  vile  huckster!    To  your  counter!    Go! 
The  Man   {icho  zvas  talking  to  the  merchant)  : 

Angry,  because  you  dealt  so  true  a  blow; 

You  read  his  heart. 
The  Priest:  Bravo,  I  read  your  own. 

The  Man:    Hypocrite! 
The  Priest:  Thief! 

First  Old  Man  (turninff  his  face  away)  : 

My  very  soul  makes  moan. 
Azriel:    'Tis  as  I  said.     Where  is  there  room  for  hope? 

Blind  with  self-seeking,  in  the  dark  they  grope. 

Ashes  like  these  have  cooled  my  heart's  young  fire. 

'Tis  done.     The  country's  dead. 
A  Voice  (from  the  crowd)  :    And  the  Messiah? 
All:    What  .    .    .  what  is  that? 

A  Shepherd  {advancing):  I  said   .    .    .   "And  the  Messiah?" 
The  Priest:  Ah,  well  .   .    . 

The  Shepherd:  You  think  He's  coming?   .    .    .  What  a  silence 

fell. 
The  Priest  {smiling)  :   Why,  5'es  .    .    . 

The  Shepherd:   What  say  the  prophets  of  our  land's  Desire? 
The  Priest:   Oh,  surely,  He  will  come,  this  great  Messiah. 
First  He  will  tell  the  prophets  and  their  sons. 

And  we'll  prepare  you. 

{Aside,  to  the  priests  about  him.)     Oh,  the  simple  ones! 

Through  all  the  ages,  some  are  hoping  still. 
The  Shepherd:    When  will  He  come? 
The  Priest:  Why,  surely,  .    .    .  When  He  will. 

The  Shepherd:  Vague  promises  that  mean   .   .    .   not  anything! 

Now,  what  like  will  He  be? 
A  Young  Man  :  A  warrior. 

The  Prifst:  .    .    .  Priest. 


154  PLJYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

First  Old  Man:   He'll  ride  upon  the  clouds   .    .    . 

Another  Young  Man:  Some  fabled  beast. 

Another:   There'll  be  two  Christs. 

Another:  One. 

Diverse  Voices:  Two!  .    .    .  But  one,  I  claim! 

A  Man  :    Christ  has  already  come. 

Many  Voices:  What  is  His  name? 

A  Young  Man  :  Judas  the  Gaulonite. 

Another:  No,  surely.    John! 

The  Priest:   Christ  will  be  strong  and  joyous! 

An  Old  Man  :  Weak  and  wan ! 

A  Young  Man  :    He  will  come  if   .    .    . 

The  Merchant:   'Tis  false.    He  will  come,  but  .    .    . 

The  Shepherd   [{While  he  speaks,  on  the  footpath,  at  the  top  of 
the  hill,  Jesus  appears  with  his  Disciples)  :] 
You  don't  believe  in  Christ.     There's  just  a  rut 
Where,  in  your  minds,  you  roll  the  old  dispute. 
I  speak  his  name.     You  quarrel  or  are  mute. 
I  tell  you,  He  is  coming.     Learned  minds 
See  not.    The  heart  sees.     What  it  seeks,  it  finds. 
What  will  He  be?     I  know  not.     That  is  dim. 
I  care  not.     He  will  be  what  pleases  Him. 
By  what  right  do  you  speak,  who  gather  here 
To  preach  what  interest  bids  you  hope  or  fear? 
We  seek  surcease  of  bitter  suffering. 
What  idle  crumbs  of  comfort  do  ye  fling? 
He  comes,  I  tell  you.     Oh,  Samaritans, 
The  shepherd  knows  the  skies  he  nightly  scans, 
He  comes, — to  breathe  on  you  His  breath  of  wrath 
And  make  you  less  than  stubble  in  His  path. 
— Your  empt)'  boasting,  and  your  lusty  greed. 
His  feet  are  on  the  threshold.     At  our  need, — 
Our  bitter  need — He  comes.    And  watching  so. 
What  need  have  we  of  signs.     His  own  will  know. 

The  Prikst:    How,  then? 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  155 

The  Shepherd:    A  word   ...   a  gesture.     Who  can  say? 
Jesus   {above  on  the  hill,  pointing  to  Sichem)  : 

Sir,  is  this  Sichem? 
The  Shepherd   {turning)  :    Stranger,  go  thy  way! 


SCENE  III 

The  Same,  Jesus  and  His  Disciples 

The  Priest:  Jews!    They  are  Jews! 

All   {shouting):    Infidels!     Let's  give  chase! 

The  Priest:   Ignore  them. 

The  Merchant:    With  disdain  let's  give  them  place. 

Azriel:    I  shall  remain. 

A  Young  Man:  Why? 

Azriel:  She  is  coming  here. 

To  fill  her  water  pot. 
The  Young  Man  :    Come,  man,  and  make  it  clear 

Not  one  will  stay. 
Another:  Let's  take  him. 

Peter   {to  the  Samaritans,  as  they  withdraw): 

What,  you  go 

Without  an  answer? 
Andrew:  We  are  hungry. 

A  Samaritan:  So? 

Find  berries  in  the  briers. 
The  Drunkard:  If  prices  bar, 

No  Jew  should  trade  in  Sichem. 
Peter  {insultingly)  :  In  Sichar. 

An  Old  Man:    My  city,  how  that  name  dishonors  thee! 
A  Young  Man:  Take  heed,  you  boasters,  lest  some  day  you  see 

Your  ancient  temple  full  of  rotting  bones. 
Peter   {angrily)  :    Oh    .    .    . 

The  Priest  {restraining  the  youth) :    Leave  them  alone. 
A  Samaritan  :  God  hates  its  very  stones. 


156  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Peter:    Thou  Hest.     (Calling  after  them.) 

There  is  but  one. 
The  Voice  of  a  Samaritan  {from  afar) : 

And  that  one,  ours. 

SCENE  IV 

Jesus  and  His  Disciples 

Peter   (coming  down):    Curses  upon  this  land;  till  plague  de- 
vours 

What  grasshoppers  refuse  to  eat  thereof! 
James   (the  same)  :    Their  crops  be  killed  with  hailstones  from 
above, 

And  maggots  at  their  roots,  by  heaven  sent! 
Andrew  (the  same)  :  Their  wives  be  barren,  young  men  impotent. 

O  may  they  know  all  hunger  and  all  thirst. 

May  enemies  invade  them  as  at  first. 

Where  Sichar  stands,  let  reeking  ruins  be! 
Peter:    Never  again  beneath  an  almond  tree 

Let  one  of  them  lie  mumbling  and  at  ease. 

Curse  rocks  and  fields  and  houses,  crops  and  trees! 

Curse  all  my  eyes  behold !     Curse  this  whole  area ! 

Curse  root  and  stock  and  branch! 
Jesus:  God  bless  Samaria.         [He  comes  down.] 
Peter:   What,  Rabbi?    But  your  rules  for  us  began, 

"Go  not  to  gentiles  nor  Samaritan, 

But  to  the  wandering  sheep  of  Israel." 
Andrew:    You  hate  these  heathen. 
Jesus:  Nay,  I  love  them  well. 

Peter:    But  your  words,  Rabbi, — telling  us  to  win 

Israel's  lost  sheep? 
Jesus:    I  bade  you  to  begin 

With  those,  your  brethren.     For  I  know  your  heart. 

Not  finding  room  for  all,  I  gave  you  part. 

If  I  had  said,  "Ivovc  all  my  Father's  sons," 

Ye  too  had  been  offended,  little  ones. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  157 

Ye  groped,  aye,  bravely,  on  your  shadowed  way. 

I  might  have  blinded  you  with  sudden  day. 

And  could  I  feed  your  weakness  on  My  wine, 

So  new,  so  strong?     Nay,  children,  ye  are  mine, 

But  light  must  filter  in,  and   I  must  spare 

To  give  too  much  at  first.     Hut  now,  I  dare. 
Andrew:    What,  not  to  be  a  Jew,  and  yet  to  be   .    .    . 
Jesus:   Elisha  healed  the  Syrian's  leprosy. 
Peter:    We've  got  to  love  them?     Can  it  ever  be? 
Jesus:    You  will  love  all  men,  having  first  loved  Me. 
Peter:    What  is  it  you  ask? 
Jesus:  Perfection,  Simon!     Oh, 

It  is  no  easy  road  on  which  3'e  go. 

I  bid  you  love  your  neighbors, 
Peter:  If  we  can. 

Who  is  my  neighbor,  Lord  ? 
Jesus:    A  certain  man 

Went  from  Jerusalem  to  Jericho. 

Robbers  waylaid  him,  stripped  his  raiment  off, 

Wounded,  and  left  him  so. 

The  echoes  seemed  to  scoff. 
He  lay,  half  dead. 

His  wounds  gaped  sore  and  wide. 

A  priest  came  by.    Seeing  the  ground  so  red, 

He  chose  the  other  side. 

A  Levite  came.     He  saw  the  dimming  eye. 
He,  too,  passed  by. 

By  the  same  road,  came  a  Samaritan, 
He  saw  the  man : 

Filled  with  compassion,  hastened  to  his  side; 

Poured  oil  and  wine  to  stanch  the  wound  so  wide; 

Lifted  him  gently,  set  him  on  his  beast. 
And  let  him  ride, 

And  lest  his  mule  should  stumble  in  the  least, 
He  walked  beside. 


158  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

He  brought  him  to  an  inn,  put  him  to  bed, 
And  when  the  dawn  was  red, 

Said  to  the  good  man  there, 

"Let  him  have  every  care 

When  I  go  hence. 

Here  are  two  pence. 

And  what  thou  spendest  more,  will  I  repay." 

And  so  this — heathen — went  upon  his  way. 

Which,  think  you,  of  these  three, 

Look  in  your  hearts  and  see, — 

Was,  in  God's  sight 

A  neighbor  to  this  man, — 

The  priest,  the  Levite, 
The  Samaritan? 
Peter:  But,   .    .    . 
Jesus  :  Have  ye  understood  ? 

James:  Yes,  Lord. 

John  {to  Jesus^  leading  him  to  the  well-curb)  :    Come,  rest. 

The  way  was  long  and  rough. 
Andrew  :  And  sore  oppressed, 

They  say,  with  robbers  bands.    They  keep  the  pass; 

One, — I  forget  his  name, — 
Jesus  {gently) :  'Tis  Barabbas. 

John   {kneeling  beside  him)  : 

You  stopped  yourself  to  ask  that  man  the  way. 

When  you  were  telling  us, — speak  on,  we  pray, — 

The  parable  of  him  who  sowed  the  grain. 
Jesus  {smiling)  :    What  must  I  tell  you? 
John  :  None  of  it  was  plain. 

Jesus:    I  sow  the  seed. 
Peter  {sitting  at  His  feet)  :   The  field  .    .    . 
Jesus:  Is  everywhere. 

Andrew  {seating  himself  as  close  to  His  feet  as  he  can)  : 

The  crop? 
Jesus:  My  cliildren  make  the  harvest  fair. 

James:   {the  same):  The  other  grain   .    .    .? 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  159 

Jesus:  The  wicked  one  has  sown, 

And  while  ye  sleep,  among  you  it  is  strown. 
Bartholomew:  The  harvesters  .    .    .  ? 
Jesus:  The  angels,  O  my  sheaves, 

AVill  fill  my  Father's  storehouse  to  the  eaves. 
Peter:    I'll  guard  my  field!     Oh,  1  will  never  sleep! 
Jesus:   Thou  wilt  sleep,  Simon.     But  this  lesson  keep 

Well  in  your  hearts;  the  husbandman  forbears 

To  weed  his  iield  in  haste,  lest,  gathering  tares. 

He  kill  the  wheat,  as  oft  the  foolisli  do. 

At  harvest  time  he  separates  the  two. 
Nathaniel   {witli  melancholy  fervor)  : 

How  good  wheat  smells,  fresh  taken  from  the  mill ! 

I'm  hungry. 
Jesus:  Ask  of  heaven  what  you  will. 

That  cloud  could  drop  down  manna  honey-sweet. 
Peter:   You  believe  that? 
Jesus:  Ask,  Cephas. 

Peter  :  At  my  feet  ?  .  .  . 

Jesus:    Yes. 

Peter:  Manna  for  us? 

Jesus  :  As  fresh  as  dew  in  May. 

Peter:   But  .   .   . 
Jesus  :  Pray. 

Peter:  Still  .   .   . 

Jesus:  Pray  .  .   . 

Peter:  I  .   .   . 

Jesus:  Pray. 

Peter   (without  conviction)  : 

Kind  Heaven,  rain,  from  out  they  vast  blue  dome 

The  Hebrew's  ancient  food. 

(After  an  interval)    It  doesn't  come. 
Jesus:  Because  you  prayed  and  doubted.     That  is  death, 

The  life  of  every  prayer  is  only  faith 

Speak  to  its  massy  rock  undoubtingly 

And  Mount  Gerizim  marches  to  the  sea. 


160  PLJYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Go,  ye  of  little  faith,  and  buy  your  bread. 

I  will  read  here  a  book  no  eye  hath  read. 

Go,  James,  Nathanasl,  Peter,  Judas,  John   .    .    . 

{They  go  off.) 
Jesus  (to  Peter,  who  lingers,  altogether  discomfited)  : 

Simon,  the  angels  who  today  look  on, 

Will  feed  your  hunger  with  their  wide-spread  wings, 

Assuage  your  thirst  with  harps  of  myriad  strings. 

By  winds  and  harmonies  the  soul  is  fed, — 

But  now,  beloved,  go,  .   .    .  and  buy  your  bread. 

{The  Disciples  go  off,  some  toward  the  town,  others  toward 
the  field.    Jesus  is  left  alone.) 
Jesus:    I  am  weary.    Yes,  but  therefore  was  I  born. 

My  hands  are  torn  by  many  a  wayside  thorn ;  , 

My  feet  are  blistered  by  the  rocks  they  pressed, 

But  from  my  bruised  body  is  exprest 

Some  wine  of  healing,  as  from  trodden  grapes. 

In  the  winepress  poured,  the  purple  juice  escapes. 

From  willing  weariness  some  help  will  flow 

To  these,  my  brethren,  While  I  walk  below, 

Each  pang  I  bear  has  some  result  divine. 

And  I,  O  Father,  conquer  by  this  sign. 

Now  that  I  almost  faint  from  weariness, 

Thy  love  will  send  some  token  of  success  .    .    . 

Straight  fall  the  sunbeams.     'Tis  the  bright  sixth  hour. 

A  flute-like  voice  drifts  like  a  breeze-tossed  flower. 

A  woman  comes  from  Sichem.     Past  the  turn. 

Hither  she  comes  to  draw.  .   .   .  The  sun's  rays  burn. 

{He  has  sat  down  again  on  the  well-curb.) 

So  near  she  is  that  I  can  see  her  plain. 

The  silken  girdle  and  the  golden  chain. 

The  veil  enshadows,  but  hides  not  her  grace, — 

My  Father's  gift  to  all  the  Hebrew  race. 

I  hear  her  silvern  anklets  softly  ring. 

Jacob,  thy  daughters,  coming  to  this  spring. 

Always,  advancing  with  unhurried  tread. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  161 

Poising  the  jar  on  nobly  lifted  head, 

Come,  with  grave  smiles  and  half  mysterious  air; 

Conforming  to  the  graceful  urns  they  bear, 

Their  bodies,  slender  vases;  handle-wise 

Their  curved  arms  lifted  to  the  brooding  skies, 

{At   this    moment,    the    Samaritan    Woman    appears    at    the 

top  of  the  hill,  on  the  footpath.) 
Immortal  splendour  of  this  gesture  free! 
Always  it  seems  most  beautiful  to  Me, 
This  gesture  every  Hebrew  woman  learns, 
Bearing  to  wayside  wells  the  heavy  urns, 
For  with  that  very  gesture, — Ah,  I  know, — 
A  Hebrew  maid  came,  thirty  years  ago, 
The  little,  gentle  handmaid  of  the  Lord, 
As  yet  untroubled  by  the  wondrous  word 
That  Gabriel  bore  her,  in  the  Almighty's  name. 
So  with  her  cruise  my  lovely  Mother  came. 
This  woman  is  a  sinner.     Carelessly, — 
— A  vase  that  knows  not  the  divinity 
Her  bare  arms  raised  to  Heaven  yet  dimly  proves, — 
She  sings,  while  dreaming  of  unworthy  loves. 

SCENE  V 

Jesus;  Photine 

Photine  {coming  down  the  footpath)  : 

O  take  ye  the  foxes  that  ravage  the  vines  .    .    . 
This  love  is  a  weight  on  the  heart. 

Bring  me  grapes,  O  my  love  .    .    .   We  will  perish,  aparl 
All  gifts  are  my  true  lover's  signs. 
Oh,  take  ye  the  foxes  that  ravage  the  vines. 

At  my  lattice  at  eve  he  has  spoken  to  me; 

"Arise  up,  my  fair  one,  and  come,  O  my  love. 
The  winter  is  past,  clouds  are  lost  in  the  sea; 

'Tis  the  time,  'tis  the  time  of  the  dove. 


162  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Then  come,  O  my  dear,  to  the  meadows  with  me 

And  there  I  will  show  you  a  dove. 
A  fig  tree  drops  sweetness  and  all  is  for  thee. 

Arise,  O  my  fair  one,  my  love. 
The  winter  is  past,  clouds  are  drowned  in  the  sea." 

Jesus:   A  soul  light  as  a  wreath  that  withereth. 

Photine   {She  has  reached  the  well,  and,  without  seeing  Jesus, 

she  fastens  the  amphora  to   the  windlass  and  slowly  lets. 

it  down)  : 

/  slept.     But  sometimes  when  I  sleep 

My  heart  awakes  with   every  breath. 
"Open,  my  soul,  my  flower,  I  keep 

Vigil  for  thee,"  my  lover  saith. 

Oh,  but  I  spake  forbiddingly, 

— Dear,  well-known  voice! — "Who  makes  such  dinf 
My  robe's  cast  off.     It  cannot  be. 

Naked  I  cannot  let  you  in." 

My   feet  are  bathed  with  mountain  snow, 
My  feet  are  laved  with  perfumes  sweet. 

How  can  I  come  to  open  so, — 

The  black,  black  stone!    My  white,  white  feet! 

How, — But  I  opened  wide  the  door. 

Against  his  might  I  am  so  weak! 
Gone, — gone!     I  cannot  find  him  more. 

Nightlong  for  my  lost  love  I  seek. 

('Gainst  the  locked  door,  in  fierce  despair 

My  hands  brat,  dropping  doivn  their  myrrh.) 
I  weep  in  my  wild,  roughened  hair, 

And  tear  the  lips  that  dared  demur. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  163 

Jesus:    Not  for  a  moment  has  she  turned  to  Me. 
Photine  :   Like  a  roe,  like  a  hart,  icill  my  love  ever  flee? 
Jesus:    Slowly  the  heavy  jar  begins  to  rise. 
Photine  (  Turning  the  heavy  ivooJen  ivindlass  that  draws  up  the 
rope)  : 

My  well  beloved — afar  I  roved — ivhen  daun  ivas  clear, 
A-seeking  thee.  Thou  earnest  to  me.  And  daylight  dies. 
Yet  in  this  night — a  magic  light — my  need  supplies. 

I  hold  thee  here. 

Here  in  my  eyes. 

Balsam  and  myrrh  my  senses  stir.     Lo,  'tis  thy  sighs. 
Thy  name,  my  lord,  as  ointment  poured,  is  sweet  to  me; 
Thy  lightest  word  with  honey  stored,  my  almond  tree. 

And  thy  clear  eyes 

Hold  heaven  for  me. 

Like  lute  unstrung,  like  fruit  wind-flung,  my  heart  lies  low, 
Loiu  at  thy  feet.    Ah,  lift  it,  sweet!  and  let  me  rest. 
Spikenard  and  balm  my  bosom  calm,  so  light  you  pressed. 

Ah,  be  a  signet 

On  my  breast! 

Jesus:  The  water  jar  is  looking  glass  for  her. 

Photine:    Like  a  signet  of  brass,  like  a  bundle  of  myrrh. 

Jesus:    In  the  cool  water,  empty  smiles  she  flashes, 

Admires  the  dye  upon  her  sweeping  lashes, 

Looks  at  her  nails  whereon  a  few  drops  fell, 

— And  the  world's  Saviour  waits  beside  the  well ! 

(Photine  lifts  her  water  jar  and  moves  away) 

She  is  going — type  of  poor  humanity 

That  almost  finds  the  Way,  but  heedlessly 

Chooses  the  by-path. 

(Photine  goes  up  the  footpath,  humming  her  broken  song.) 

If  I  make  no  sign, 

She  too  will  go  away.     Yet  all  are  mine — 


164  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

(Photine  is  nearly  out  of  sight.) 

O  Woman, — I  am  athirst.     The  sun  is  very  hot! 

Give  me  to  drink,  I  pray. 
Photixe  :  The  Jews  deal  not, 

— He  is  a  Jew,  this  thirsty,  wayworn  man, — 

With   Sichemite  or  with  Samaritan. 

Little  or  large,  all  dealings  they  decline. 

Our  bread,  they  say,  smells  of  the  flesh  of  swine. 

Honey  from  Sichem  hives  the  Jews  refuse; 

They  say  it  tastes  of  blood.     My  dripping  cruise 

Came  from  Samaria's  tainted  well  but  now. 

A  heathen  bears  it  on  her  unclean  brow. 

You  should  refuse  it,  finding  it  to  stink. 

Instead  of  asking  for    .    .    . 
Jesus  :  Give  Me  to  drink ! 

Photine:    Has  your  great  thirst  your  teaching  so  refuted? 

Know,  Jew,  that  you  would  be  the  less  polluted 

Handling  foul  vermin,  reptiles  poisonous, 

Than  being  succoured  so  by  one  of  us. 

(fVith  quarrelsome  volubility.) 

Stay  till  tomorrow.     Either  sit  or  stand. 

I'll  not  let  down  my  pitcher  to  my  hand. 

'Tis  on  my  shoulder.     There  it  will  remain. 

Ho,  Eleazar,  lacking  gifts  and  train! 

I'm  not  Rebecca,  as  you  seem  to  think. 

Be  thirsty  if  you  will.    You  shall  not  drink. 

{Coming  back  a  little  way.) 

You  see  this  water, — clear,  so  pure,  so  clear. 

The  cruise  seems  empty,  though  I  filled  it  here. 

So  cool  one  sees  the  moisture  on  the  cruise; 

Silver  and  pearl  this  draught — which  I  refuse. 

O  Beggar,  hear  the  thirst-provoking  sound. 

The  tinkle,  tinkle,  in  its  depths  profound, — 

Light  as  a  draught  distilled  of  summer  air! 

No  water  is  so  cool,  so  clear,  so  fair. 

Ah,  well,  for  you,  the  Law,  be  very  sure, 

Says  that  this  purest  water  is  Impure! 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  165 

Jesus:   Woman   .    .    . 

Photine:         I'd  rather  pour  it  on  the  sod 

Than  give   .    .    . 
Jesus:  If  you  but  knew  the  gift  of  God, 

And  Who  brings  h'ght  when  in  the  dark  you  shrink — 

And  Who  He  is  that  says  Give  me  to  drink; 

Who  sitteth  here  upon  the  well's  wide  rim, 

He  would  not  ask  of  thee,  but  thou  of  Him. 
Photine  :  You  speak  in  riddles  just  to  make  me  heed. 
Jesus  :   I  would  give  living  waters  to  thy  need. 
Photine:   Stranger,  I  listen,  for  I  have  no  choice, 

Some  Influence  masters  me, — your  eyes,  your  voice. 

You  speak  of  living  waters.    Yet  you  keep 

Nothing  to  draw  with,  and  the  well  is  deep. 

Whence  hast  thou  then  that  water,  wondrous  Jew? 

— It  must  be  false  and  yet  I  think  it  true, — 

Is  there,  in  all  the  sources  of  Judea, 

Water  as  limpid  as  this  water  here? 

People  an  hour  away  come  here  to  draw. 

Our  father  Jacob  built  it,  when  he  saw 

The  land  athirst.     Here  drank  his  mighty  sons, 

Their  wives,  their  servants,  and  their  little  ones. 

Most  famous  of  all  famous  springs  and  wells. 

What  is  it  this  mysterious  stranger  tells? 

Here  Jacob's  cattle  ages  since  were  fed, 

Art  greater  then  than  Jacob? 
Jesus:  Thou  has  said. 

Photine:    In  your  cupped  hands  a  little  I  will  pour 

Then  you  will  see   .    .    . 
Jesus  :  He  thirsteth  nevermore 

Whom  I  have  given  to  drink.    With  how  much  pain 

You  come  to  draw  again  and  yet  again. 

But  whoso  drinks  the  living  draught  I  give 

Within  himself  shall  welling  fountains  live, 

And  life  eternal  from  those  waters  brim. 

If  he  but  drink  the  draught  I  bring  to  him. 


166  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Photine:  What!    For  eternity  to  have  no  thirst? 

A  good  thing  to  believe, — if  one  but  durst. 

Elijah's  draught  lasted  a  wondrous  while 

When  he  was  in  the  desert.     Ah,  you  smile? 

Some  learning  to  this  woman  you  must  grant, — 

He  went  for  forty  days  and  did  not  want. 

You've  learned  his  secret  in  your  wandering? 

O  Master,  lead  me  to  that  hidden  spring. 

Show  me  this  wonder  that  your  wanderings  saw, 

That  I  thirst  not,  nor  hither  come  to  draw. 
Jesus  :   Hearing,  thou  hearest  not,  nor  givest  heed 

To  any  thirst  but  that  of  fleshly  need. 
Photine:  Give  me  this  water.    Stranger,  I  implore, — 

This  living  water,  that  I  thirst  no  more. 
Jesus:    Go,  call  thy  husband  and  return  to  Me. 
Photine:    My  husband? 
Jesus:  Go. 

Photine:  But  I   .    .    .  but  I 

Jesus:  I  see, 

Thou  art  ashamed. 
Photine:  I  have  no  husband. 

Jesus  :  Verily, 

Thou  saidest  truly.    Five  men  by  that  name 

Were  called,  and  thou  wouldst  call  this  sixth  the  same. 
Photine:   Master   .    .    . 
Jesus  :         Thou  saidest  truly,  yea,  and  well. 

Thou  hast  no  husband,  it  is  truth  you  tell. 

That  holy  name  thou  hast  no  right  to  speak. 
Photine:   Master. 
Jesus  :         Five  men  have  had  thee.     Didst  thou  seek 

God's  blessing,  or  the  blessing  of  God's  priest? 

Troops  of  young  friends  and  wholesome  marriage  feast? 

Torches?   .    .    . 
Photine:  O  Master. 

Ji'SUs:  Merry  dulcimer, 

Jests  gay  and  tender ;  tremblings  sweet,  to  stir 

Thf  myrtle  crown  set  on  thy  drooping  head?   .    .    . 


THE  JVOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  107 

Photine:  Lord,  Lord!  a  proplict  surely,  who  hast  read   .    .    . 

Jesus:  Tiiou  callest  Me  prophet  since  I  know  thy  heart. 
It  is  but  part,  and  such  a  little  part, 
If  thou  wilt  learn,  of  things  that  I  can  show. 

Photine:  O  Master,  canst  thou  tell?  .    .    . 

Jesus:  What  wouldst  thou  know? 

Photine:    'Tis  this:    You  Jews  our  whole  religion  spurn 
Because  we  worship  here,  and  yet  wc  learn 
That  your  forefathers, — who  are  also  ours, — 
Worshipped  here  only.     Have  the  heavenly  powers 
So  changed?     The  priests  and  doctors  understand. 
Wc  common  folk,  beset  on  cither  hand, 
Wishing  to  kneel  upon  the  holy  mount. 
Are  told  of  two,  that  two  high  priests  account 
Holy, — yet  each  declares  there  is  but  one, 
Ancient  and  chosen  of  God,  beneath  the  sun. 
"Pray  on  this  mountain."     "No,  pray  on  the  other," 
And  so,  we  climb  not  neither  one  nor  t'other.    .    .    . 
So,  always  in  the  valley  I  have  trod.    .    .    . 
And    .    .    .    plucking  flowers  there   ...    I  forgot  my  God. 

Jesus:   Be  of  good  comfort,  for  the  hour  is  nigh 

When  all  will  worship  God,  both  low  and  high, 
Not  at  Gerizim,  or  Jerusalem. 
In  little  Sichem,  little  Bethlehem, 
Wherever  any  humble  soul  finds  space 
To  speak  to  God.     He  dwells  not  in  one  place. 
God  is  a  Spirit.    They  who  worship  Him 
Will  never  reach  Him  at  the  horizon's  rim. 
The  Spirit  goes  where  never  foot  has  trod. 
Nowhere,  and  Everywhere,  man  finds  his  God. 

Photine:    I  have  lived  far  from  God.     I  can  receive 
Only  a  little,  but  I  do  believe 
Three  things:  the  dead  will  some  day  come  again; 
Angels  \ya\c  visited  this  mortal  plain. 
And — fairest,  surest  hope  beneath  the  sun, — 
I  wait  the  coming  of  the  Promised  One, 
Await  and  love  Him,  L'Ha-Schaab,  Christ,  Messiah! 


168  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  RO STAND 

Jesus  {lifting  His  eyes  to  heaven)  : 

The  humblest,  always!     At  my  deep  desire! 

I  thank  Thee,  Father! 

{To  Photine.) 

What  thinkst  thou  of  Christ? 
Photine:  That  He  will  come. 

Jesus:  And  then? 

Photine  :  Why  that  sufficed. 

He  is  coming. 
Jesus:  Coming  .    .   .  j'es.  .   .    .  What  will  He  bring? 

Photine:  I  think  He  comes  to  teach  us  everything. 
Jesus:   Hear  her,  O  Father! 

Woman,  have  no  fear. 

Thou  sayest  the  words  that  I  have  longed  to  hear. 

Lift  up  thy  head.     Behold  thy  soul's  Desire. 

I — I  that  speak — am  He.     I  am  Messiah. 
Photine  (starts  back,  then,  stammering,  sinks  to  her  knees)  : 

Thou!  .    .   .  I  .   .   .  Ha-Schaab!  .    .    .  Messiah!  .   .    . 

Emanuel ! 
Jesus:  Jesus. 

Photine  {on  her  knees)  :  Thou  well-beloved. 

Jesus  {icatching  her)  :  A  hush  of  silence  fell. 

Photine  {sings  suddenly) : 

My  well-beloved,  long,  long  I  roved,  when  dawn  was  clear, 
A-seeking  Thee.     Thou  came  to  vie.     The  old  day  dies. 
Into  my  night,  a  magic  Light  my  need  supplies. 

I  have  Thee  here. 

Before  tny  eyes. 

Balsam  and  myrrh  my  spirit  stir.     Lo,  'tis  Thy  sighs. 
Thy  name,  my  Lord,  as  ointment  poured,  is  balm  to  me. 
Thy  gentle  word  with  perfume  stored.     Thou  Myrtle  tree. 

Thy  clear  eyes 

Open  Heaven  for  me. 

My  heart  lies  low; 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  169 

My  God,  what  have  I  done? 

For  Him  the  same  song,  Oh,  the  very  one! 

Oh,  sacrilege!     The  idle  words  and  free! 
Jesus:   All  words  of  love  must  speak  at  last  of  Me. 

One  must  to  Me  the  halting  words  address 

To  know  the  fullness  of  their  tenderness. 
Photine:    Master,  adoring,  I  could  but  repeat 

The  words  I  knew.    .    .    . 
Jesus:  I  know.    The  gift  was  sweet. 

I  have  received  it. 
Photine:  Oh,  the  old  words  came 

With  this  new  Love!     Oh,  shame! 
Jesus:  Nay,  feel  no  shame. 

The  love  of  Me  comes  always  to  a  heart 

Where  lesser,  human  loves  have  had  a  part. 

In  the  old  lamp,  a  newer  light  discloses. 

Makes  fadeless  garlands  from  life's  fading  roses: 

Lo,  I  make  all  things  new.     Let  none  retard 

Breaking  the  box  of  aloes  or  of  narl. 

The  merchant  sold  it  for  its  savour  sweet, 

But  penitents  expend  it  at  my  feet. 

My  feet  are  rested,  where  this  gift  is  spread, 

Wiped  with  the  tresses  of  an  humbled  head. 

Think  not  thy  song  is  shameful  in  My  eyes. 

The  soul  that  finds  Me,  in  its  first  surprise, 

Knows  not  its  new  song,  though  it  stirs  within. 

Trembling,  confused,  rejoiced,  it  must  begin 

Some  fragment  of  the  song  it  learned  elsewhere, 

And,  lo!  the  love-song  has  become  a  prayer! 
Photine:    "Who  drinks  the  living  water  that  I  give 

Shall  never  thirst."     I  thirst  no  more !     I  live,  .    .    . 

I'd  weep  upon  Thy  hands.     Ah,  thought,  too,  free! 

How  good  He  is!     He  holds  them  out  to  me!  .    .    . 

Lord,  for  the  first  time — O  the  very  first, 

I  thirst  no  more,  who  was  devoured  with  thirst! 

I  sought  the  broken  cisterns  every  one. 


170  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

I  drank, — and  thirsted  ere  the  draught  was  done! 

Sometimes  1  thought  I  loved.    To  love,  I  knew, 

Would  slake  my  thirst.    That  love  was  never  true. 

It  left  me  parched  and  dry, — a  tortured  thing. 

Someone  would  tell  me   of  another  spring. 

Hope  of  new  cisterns  sunk  in  newer  lands 

Drove  me,  my  empty  pitcher  in  my  hands. 

Always  I  found  the  old,  old,  weary  road, 

Cattle  that  browsed  or  drew  their  heavy  load, 

The  stunted  olive  trees  along  the  way, 

A  sky  of  azure  or  a  sky  of  gray; 

With  the  old  gesture,  though  my  soul  would  tire, 

I  lowered  the  empty  cruise  of  my  desire; 

Always  I  found  the  same  deceitful  thing, — 

Roiled,  brackish  waters  from  a  troubled  spring. 

From  my  hot  lips  the  faithless  pitcher  fell. 

Always  my  cruise  was  broken  at  the  well ! 
Jesus:    What  need,  Photine,  to  tell  Me?     For  I  knew. 
Photine:  And  now  my  soul  seems  bathed  with  morning  dew. 

Out  of  my  shadows  I  have  caught  the  gleam, 

The  rainbow  arc  above  the  living  stream. 

Gush,  Spring  of  Love,  and  mount  in  jets  of  faith 

And  fall  in  drops  of  hope,  dispelling  death. 

Sing,  Living  Water.     Cast  upon  my  soul 

And  all  its  dust,  the  flood  that  makes  me  whole! 
Jesus:    Thou  scekest  new  words  for  the  new  thoughts  that  rise, 

But  I  rejoice  to  see  thy  tear-dimmed  eyes. 
Photine:    My  worthless  words!     My  eyes  not  fit  to  see! 
Jesus:   All  tear-dimmed  eyes  are  beautiful  to  me. 

Strive  not  for  words.     I  understand  your  tear. 
Photine:   O  teach  me. 
Jesus:  For  that  cause,  I  waited  here. 

When  my  disciples  come,  who  went  to  buy 

Food  in  the  village,  leave  me. 
Pjiotine   {u'ith  a  gesture  tou'ard  the  cruise)  :    Master,  I 

Gave  you  no  water, — Thou  who  givest  Salvation ! 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  171 

Jesus:    I  thirsted  only  for  your  salutation. 
Photine:    'Tis  true.     I  offer  water  to  the  River. 
Jesus:    I  quench  my  thirst  if  I  a  soul  deliver. 
Photine:    Here  at  Thy  feet,  I  wait. 
Jesus:  The  air  is  blue. 

Silence  enfolds  us.     I  will  speak  to  you 

Of  Mj'  new  Kingdom;  how  man  grows  divine; 

The  wheat  and  tares;  the  branches  and  the  vine. 
Photine:    I  listen. 
Jesus  :  I  will  tell  you  of  the  seed ; 

The  leavened  meal;  the  pearl;  and,  if  you  heed, — 
Photine:   I  listen! 
Jesus:  — I  will  teach  you  how  to  pray; 

Tell  of  the  flock  left  for  one  lamb  astray, 

Until  the  Shepherd  found  and  brought  it  home. 
Photine:   I  listen! 
Jesus:  How  the  King  again  will  come; 

Of  roads,  one  safe,  and  small,  one  wide  and  broad, 

And  of  My  Father. 
Photine:  O,  I  listen,  Lord. 

{Curtain) 


SECOND  PART 
The  Gate  of  Sichem 

Behind  the  curtain,  a  tumult  of  gay  voices,  strange  cries,  songs, 
laughter. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  one  sees  the  Market  Place  at  the  Gate 
of  Sichem. 

A  wide  space  upon  which  many  narrow  streets  converge.  Flat- 
roofed  houses,  narrow  little  staircases  in  the  outer  walls.  Right, 
the  house  of  Photine. 

At  the  back,  the  city  gate;  a  vaulted  arch  dark  and  deep  behind 
zvhich  one  has  a  glimpse  of  open  country,  and  surmounting  ii'hich 
is  the  house  of  ScHOER,  the  gate-keeper;  a  turret  whence  he  can 
see  the  surrounding  country. 

Rumble  of  caravansary,  flutter  of  bright  colours,  innumerable 
tradesmen;  stalls,  booths;  piles  of  sacks,  boxes  and  jars. 

In  the  background,  the  Elders  are  gravely  grouped.  They 
sit  in  the  gates  for  their  business.  Children  play  about.  Young 
men  amuse  themselves  trying  to  lift  the  heavy  stones.  Women 
and  young  girls  chatter  at  the  stalls. 

Peter  and  the  Disciples  are  there  to  buy  food,  repulsed  and 
railed  at  by  the  tradesfolk.  The  Priest  in  the  background  with 
the  Elders. 

SCENE  I 

Peter,  the  Disciples,  the  Crowd 

Cries  of  the  Merchants:  Wheat!  Honey!  Milk!  Fruit!  Rice! 

Fresh  rckikim. 
Peter:    It  makes  me  hungrier  to  follow  him. 
Andrew  :   Let's  go  away. 
Peter:  No,  try  again! 

172 


THE  WOMA}^  OF  SAMARIA  173 

Andrew:  No  use; 

They  mock  at  us. 
A  Merchant:  Oil  cakes;  fresh  lemon  juice! 

Andrew  {eagerly):    How  much? 

A  Young  Man  {in  passing)  :  They're  Jews.    Get  from  them  all 
you  can. 

{Tlie  Disciples  turn  away.) 
Another  Merchant  {to  the  passing  crowd)  :  Dye  for  eyelashes! 
Another:  Arrow  shafts!     Young  man, 

Strong  reeds  of  Merom  !     Arrow  shafts !     Who'll  buy  ? 
Peter  {to  Nathanael)  :   There  is  a  good  old  man.     Perhaps — 
you  try, — 

He'll  sell  his  figs   .    .    . 
Another  Merqhant:  FarJ  for  the  nails,  young  maid! 
Andrew  {ivhile  Nathanael  talks  to  the  old  vender)  : 

I  am  faint  with  hunger. 
Peter  {to  Nathanael,  who  rejoins  them)  : 

Tell  us,  would  he  trade  ? 
Nathanael:    He  said,  "Go  shake  the  trees,  you  Jewish  fool." 
John  :    I  die  of  thirst. 

A  Merchant  {crying  his  ivares)  :   Cucumbers!    Fresh  and  cool! 
Peter  {resignedly)  :    Let's  try  to  buy  a  fish. 
A  Young  Girl   {questioning  another  of  her  group)  :    O  Noemi, 

What  will  your  lover  give  you? 
Noemi  :  Guess. 

The  Girl:  A  cap? 

Noemi  {shaking  her  head)  :    Uh-um. 
Another  Girl:  A  wooden  shoe  to  make  a  clap? 

Noemi:    You  tease! 

Another:    Better  than  that?    A  brazen  mirror? 
Noemi:  Guess! 

Another:  A  ring? 

Noemi:  An  ivory  nose  ring,  nothing  less! 

All  {dazzled) :    Oh! 
Peter  {back;  to  the  fishmonger)  :    Tliree  shekels  for  this  tunny? 


174  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  Merchant:  Four  is  right. 

A  Man   {with  a  couple  of  birds  on  his  shoulder)  : 

Who  wants  to  see  my  pretty  finches  fight? 

{A  circle  is  quickly  formed  around  hirn.) 
Peter  (to  the  Disciples)  :  Let's  go. 
Andrew:  What  have  we  bought? 

Nathanael:  Some  rice, — a  little  bit. 

Peter:  Dusty. 
James:  A  cheese. 

Peter  :  Mouldy. 

Andrew:  Some  fruit. 

Peter:  Not  fit 

To  eat. 
John  {showing  a  straggly  bunch  of  dried-up  grapes)  '. 

This  bunch  of  grapes. 
Peter:  And  none  supposes 

That  these  are  Eachol's  famous  grapes,  by  Moses! 

It  wouldn't  take  two  spies  to  bring  them  back. 

{To  a  Disciple.)     And,  Judas,  how  much  silver  in  the  sack? 
The  Disciple  {showing  an  empty  sack)  :  Nothing. 

{They  all  gather  around  and  look.) 
Peter:    Already? 

Andrew  {shaking  his  head)  :    Hum! 
James  {whispering) :  I  know  his  wiles. 

He  is  a  thief. 
John  :   The  Master  says,  and  smiles, 

"He  must  love  money  if  the  work  be  done." 
Peter:    Come! 
The  Crowd   {yelling  as  the  Disciples  go  through  the  Gate)  : 

They  are  running!     Dogs!     Thieves!     Swine! 
Peter  {softly  to  John)  :  O,  John, 

It's  my  belief  one  finds    .    .    . 
The  Crowd:  The  scurvy  Jews! 

Peter  :  Since  time  began — 

Only  in  parables,  the  good  Samaritan. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  175 

SCENE    II 
The  Same,  lacking  the  Disciples 
(AZRIEL  has  stopped  in  front  of  PnoTlNii's  house.  Right.) 

AZRIEL  {to  a  servant  who  appears  on  the  threshold)  : 

She  is  still  at  Jacob's  well? 
The  Serving  Woman:    She's  still  tlure,  master. 
One  Woman   {to  another)  : 

Watch  Azriel.     He  thinks  it  great  disaster 

Because  Photine   .    .    . 
The  Other:  Oh,  speak  not  of  Photine! 

The  First:  The  world  is  honey  for  that  libertine! 
A  Third:    Our  honest  days  before  the  dawn  begin, 

And  while  we  cook  and  scrub  and  mend  and  spin, 

There  are  soft  words  for  women  of  that  ilk. 

Almonds  for  food  and  dresses  all  of  silk. 
Azriel:   When  will  she  come  back? 

{Calling  to  the  Gate-keeper.) 

O!     What  ho,  Schoer! 

You  on  your  turret,  who  can  see  so  far, 

Is  Photine  coming?    Tell  me  what  you  see. 
Schoer:  She  isn't  coming. 
First  Woman  {to  the  second)  :   Listen,  honey  bee! 

Isn't  it  vexing? 
The  Second  {whispering)  :    Olive  branch,  they  say 

The  end  is  near.     She  waxes  every  day 

More  wanton.     They  will  drive  her  from  tiie  city? 
The  Third:   Who? 
The  First:       Why,  the  Elders. 
The  Third:  Truly? 

The  First:  Without  pity. 

You  see,  they're  whispering  now.     Of  her. 
The  Second:  I  think  it's  time! 

All  Sichem  stinks  with  that  bold  harlot's  crime. 

Isn't  it  so,  dear  Palm  tree? 
The  First:  Yes,  my  pearl! 


176  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  Third:    If  God  His  wrath  against  us  all  should  hurl, 
Photine  would  be  to  blame — her  ogling  eyes! 

Another:    Her  clothes  might  call  down  lightning  from  the  skies. 

Another:   A  shameless  hussy! 

Another:  Child  of  Lucifer! 

The  First:   And  God  may  punish  us  to  punish  her! 

The  Second:    I'd  kill  the  strumpet  if  a  look  could  blast! 

AzRiEL  {to  the  servant)  :   I'll  go  to  meet  her. 

ScHOER  {leaning  from  the  tower)  :    Here  she  comes  at  last! 

Azriel:    You  see  her? 

ScHOER :  Yes.     She  makes  the  strangest  signs. 

She  has  left  the  path.     She  is  running  through  the  vines, 
And  the  young  wheat.     I  see  her.     How  she  flies! 

Azriel:    It  can't  be  she! 

Schoer:  It  is!     I  still  have  eyes! 

Her  hair  is  flying.     She  is  very  near. 
How  pale  she  is ! 

Azriel:  It  isn't  she! 

Schoer:  She  is  here. 

(Photine  appears  in   the  gate,  running;  she  stops  in  the 
gateway,  panting.) 

SCENE  III 
The  Same.     Photine 

Azriel:   'Tis  thou!    Oh,  I  trembled,  I  feared,  I  can't  tell 

What  I  suffered !    Where  wast  thou  ?    'Twas  not  at  the  well. 
For  thou  bearest  no  cruise,  not  a  jar,  not  a  thing, 
To  hold  water. 

Photine:  And  yet  it  is  water  I  bring. 

Azriel:    Dear,  why  did  thou  run  so? 

Photine:  They  perish  of  thirst. 

Azriel:   So  thou  camest  .    .    . 

Photine:  From  the  Well. 

Azriel:  Jacob's  Well? 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  177 

Photine:  So  they  called  it  at  first. 

They  used  that  name  once. 
AzRiEL  {laughing)  :  And  today  they    still  use. 

Photine:   No. 
Azriel:    Where  is  thy  veil? 
Photine;  Fallen  off! 

Azriel:  And  thy  cruise? 

Photine:  And  my  cruise? 

Azriel:   Sweet,  what  wast  thou  doing?    I  sought   .    .    . 
Photine:  •  I  was  found. 

Azriel:    Didst  thou  carry  thy  pitcher? 
Photine:  Why,  yes,  I  was  bound 

For  the  Well. 
Azriel:  But  'twas  left  .    .    . 

Photine:  Where  my  old  self  was  left. 

Azriel:    More  riddles.     I  seem  of  my  senses  bereft. 
Photine:    Poor  Azriel! 
Azriel  :  I  love  thee ! 

Photine:  No,  no.     I  had  gleams, 

As  you  lay  in  my  arms,  of  your  thoughts,  of  your  dreams, 

— When  lip  touches  lip,  souls  are  meeting  instead. 

And  the  breast  where  it  lies  knows  the  thoughts  of  the  head  ! — 

I  bid  you  remember  and  every  hope  set 

On  all  that  you  hoped  I  could  make  you  forget! 

The  dream  you  rejected  for  me,  I  restore. 

{She  cries  aloud.)     O  People. 
Azriel:  What  sayst  thou? 

Photine:  Like  waves  on  the  shore 

You  ebb  and  you  flow,  noisy,  heedless  and  gay! 
A  Man:    Photine!     It's  improper  to  hear  what  you  say. 
Photine:    O  women,  who  chaffer  and  laugh  as  you  trade! 
A  Woman  :    She  accosts  honest  women  and  is  not  afraid. 
Azriel:    Hush!    Take  care,  dear. 
Photine:  Ye  Elders,  ye  Scribes  of  the  Law, 

Ye  Doctors,  ye  Priests. 
An  Elder:  You  are  judged  by  that  Law. 


178  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Photine:  Ye  IVIerchants. 

A  Merchant  {maliciously)  :    Photine  will  be  marked  if  she  can. 

Photine  :    By  the  gray  Well  of  Jacob,  there  sits  a  young  man, 

A  pale  Nazarene  with  a  wonderful  word. 

He  spoke — to  me — gently.     My  spirit  is  stirred. 

New  joy,  and  new  grief,  He  can  rouse  or  assuage. 

His  gesture  is  one  that  sets  open  a  cage! 
The  Crowd  {laughing)  :   Ha!  ha! 
Photine:       I  believe 'tis  that  Prophet.    He  knew 

All  that  ever  I  did!    All  my  sins!     I  speak  true. 

And  deep  in  my  heart,  He  has  read  a  desire 

For  holier  things.     Is  not  this  the  Messiah? 
A  Man  :   The  woman  is  mad  ! 

Another:  What  trick  will  she  try? 

Another  {laughing)  :    Ha,  ha!     Ha,  ha,  ha! 
A  Merchant:  My  pigeons!    Who'll  buy? 

Another  Merchant:    Two  sparrows!     A  bargain!     A  cheap 

sacrifice ! 
Photine:    Have  pity  and  listen! 

A  Purchaser:  How  much  for  this  spice? 

The  Merchant:   Twelve  sekels. 
Purchaser:  At  that  price,  you  never  can  sell. 

Photine:  A  young  Man  is  sitting  by  Jacob's  gray  well. 

He  calls  His  name  Jesus.     He  comes  from  Judea. 

He  asked  me  for  water. — And  I  would  not  hear. 

Then,  gracious  and  lovely,  He  stood  by  the  brink, 

And,  having  no  pitcher,  He  gave  me  to  drink. 
A  Woman  {to  a  vender)  :  A  fine  necklace. 
Another:  Phoenician? 

The  Merchant:  You  ladies  admire 

Fine  work. 
Photine:       Don't  you  wish  that  it  might  be  Messiah? 
A  Young  Man:  Messiah?    He  will  come  after  you  and  I  rot. 
Another  {catching  up  with  a  group)  : 

Better  come  see  the  bird  fight.     I   almost  forgot! 


THE  irOMJN  OF  SAMARIA  179 

Photine:    O  listen,  ye  wretched!     Ye  people,  1  bring 

Such  wonderful  news! 
A  Merchant:  I  am  tired  of  this  thing! 

Another  Merchant:    Be  silent. 
Photine:  I  cannot  keep  silence! 

First  Merchant:  Here,  go! 

That's  enough. 
Photine:  I  cannot.     I  must  speak  what  I  know. 

I  must  cry  the  good  news.    Ye  reject,  ye  despise. 
Yet  still  through  the  crowd  there  will  echo  my  cries. 
Near  the  gray  Well  of  Jacob  there  sits  a  young  man. 
A  glory  is  about  His  head. 
The  eyebrows  o'er  His  clear  eyes  spread 
Are  like  the  rainbow's  span. 

Meek,  yet  He  seems  to  hold  a  palm 

Shadowed  by  royal  state. 
One  knows  Him  by  His  royal  calm. 

'Tis  He  whom  we  await ! 

A  far-oflF  song  comes  on  a  breeze 

Across  Engcddi's  bowers — 
New  beauty  wakes  in  flute  and  flowers. 

His  grace  is  like  to  these. 

And  oh,  His  heavenly  gentleness. 

New  milk,  ...   a  sun-bright  dove,  .    .    . 
In  purity,  in  loveliness, 

Are  shadows  of  His  love. 

A  Merchant:   She  makes  them  listen. 

Another  Merchant:    She  is  hurting  trade! 

A  Man   {bitterly  to  the  merchants)  : 

Yes, — and  why  tell  new  hopes  to  souls  afraid 

When  sweets  and  gewgaws  might  be  bought  and  sold? 


180  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Another  (to  the  High  Priest,  who  draws  near,  attracted  by 
the  noise)  :    She  speaks  of  Christ. 

The  Priest:  Who? 

Photine  :  I ! 

The  Priest:  'Tis  very  bold. 

You  speak  of  Christ?    Do  you  know  Who  He  is? 
No  man  may  speak  of  him  who  has  not  this, 
Piety,  learning, — skill  to  learn  by  rote 
All  teachers  once  declared  and  prophets  wrote 
About  Messiah.     No  woman  has  this  learning. 

Photine:   I  have  a  word,  here  in  my  memory  burning. 
'Tis  written,  "When  Emanuel  shall  come 
The  blind  will  see  the  lame  in  dances  turning; 
The  deaf  will  hear  Hosannahs  of  the  dumb." 

The  Priest:   She  caught  some  text  that  I  have  used  myself. 

An  Old  Man:   This  ignorant? 

A  Young  Man  :  She  seems  beside  herself ! 

Another:    Surely  her  lips  are  touched  with  altar  fire! 

Photine:   "I  give  you  hearts  of  flesh  in  this  new  day; 
Your  hearts  of  stone  will  melt  with  pure  desire, 
And  ye  will  walk  with  Me  the  Living  Way, 
One  people  with  one  God,  .   .    .  with  one  Messiah!" 

The  Priest:    Ezekiel's  vision.     She  who  quotes  indeed 
Has  read  his  words. 

Azriel:  She  has  not  learned  to  read. 

The  Priest:   Whence  has  she  then  these  scriptures  to  repeat? 

Photine:    "How  fair  upon  the  mountains  are  the  feet 
Of  those  who  bring  good  tidings!     Hail  to  them!" 

The  Priest:    Isaiah  said  that. 

Photine:  "Little  Bethlehem, 

Thou  who  wast  least,  the  greatest  thou  shalt  be." 
The  Priest:   Silence! 

Photine:  "O  Nazareth,  nations  look  to  thee." 

The  Priest:    In  Moses'  books  the  deepest  meaning  slumbers! 
Photine:    Hear  what  is  written  in  the  Book  of  Numbers: 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  181 

The  words  of  Balaam-ben-beor  I  tell, — 

"O  Star  of  Jacob,  Rod  of  Israel!"   .    .    . 
The  Priest:   Whence  comes  this  learning  or  this  memory? 
Photine:   And  hear  the  words  of  Deuteronomy   .    .    . 
Many  Voices:   A  miracle!     Magic!     'Tis  Christ!  Can  it  be? 

No! 
Photine:  If  only  it  might  be!    Oh,  come,  come  and  see! 

A  Voice  {from  the  Crowd)  :  False  prophecy  a  falser  faith  inspires. 
Another:    And  we  have  seen  so  many  "true  Messiahs." 
Photine:    If  it  might  be! 
A  Merchant:   But  no. 

Photine:  If  it  but  might! 

A  Young  Man  :  'Twill  do  no  harm  to  go. 
The  Priest:  If  she  were  right. 

How  could  the  soul  of  Christ,  give  heed,  O  friends, 

Speak  to  this  harlot's  soul? 
Photine:  He  condescends. 

The  Priest:   Go,  pour  your  perfumes  on  your  secret  stairs, 

Go,  paint  your  face  and  set  your  evening  snares. 
Photine:   You  hurt, — but  vex  me  not.    Your  taunt  is  just. 

Rightly  my  sins  have  robbed  me  of  your  trust. 
Azriel:    My  proud  Photine  so  humble!     There  must  be 

In  this  strange  story  some  divinity. 
Photine  {kneeling  in  the  market  place)  : 

I  do  confess  that  I  was  all  unclean. 

I  ask  forgiveness  of  you  all. 
A  Woman   {raising  her  up):    Photine! 
Photine:   A  messenger  unworthy  of  her  gift. 

But  He  delighteth  humble  souls  to  lift, 

Loves  the  unlovely,  quenches  bitterest  thirst, 

— ^This  gracious  Lord, — and  blesses  the  accurst, 

Pities  the  helpless,  looks  upon  the  least, 

Loves  the  poor  man,  the  child,  the  bird,  the  beast — 

The  small,  sad  donkey, — wistful  dogs  we  beat. 

And  publicans   .    .    .   and  women  of  the  street. 


182  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Diverse  Cries:    Make  her  hush!     Shameless  sinner!     Before  she 
begins 

Further  blasphemous  speech! 
Photine:  I  am  cleansed  from  my  sins. 

A  Woman  {starting  from  the  crowd  and  running  to  her)  : 

Will  He  cleanse  me  of  mine, — of  all  mine? 
Photine:  Yes,  indeed! 

He  will  not  break,  not  He,  the  bruised  reed. 

The  dimmest  smoking  flax  He  will  not  quench. 

With  living  waters  the  hurt  reed  He'll  drench, 

Till  on  that  reed  in  the  sweet  breeze  of  spring, 

His  happy  birds  may  safely  sway  and  sing. 

And  He  the  smoking  flaxen  wick  will  trim 

Till  it  will  glow  and  flame,  and  shine  for  Him. 
The  Priest:  Ah,  to  man's  soul  are  these  pernicious  lies 

Like  vinegar  to  teeth,  like  smoke  to  eyes. 
A  Young  Man:    How  beautiful  she  is! 
Another:  I  see  my  duty. 

The  Spirit  calls  through  her! 
Another  :  You  see  her  beauty. 

Another    {trying  to   draw   Photine   away,   indicating  a  little 
group  who  seem  interested  and  even  convinced)  : 

Come!    These  will  go  with  you! 
Photine:  Ah,  no! 

Not  without  half  the  city! 
A  Child:  I  will  go! 

Photine  {moving  through  the  crowd): 

O  ye,  whose  dwelling  not  a  Jewish  child 

May  enter  in  except  he  be  defiled, 

Ye,  who  are  counted  in  the  shameful  ranks 

Of  tricksters,  jugglers,  thieves  and  mountebanks, 

Excluded  by  tiu-  Law  from  holy  feasts, 

Vile  gluttons,  drunkards,  pagans,  unclean  beasts, — 

Samaritans, — for  that  dishonored  name 

Holds  all  of  misery  and  all  of  shame! — 


THE   WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  183 

Rabble  of  this  world,  outcasts  of  the  other, 

Come  to  this  Christ  who  calls  Himself  >our  Brother! 

But  they  who  know  not  sins  nor  pains  nor  cares, — 

The  strong,  the  proud, — this  Christ  is  none  of  theirs. 
The  Priest:   Christ  is  a  King  to  make  the  boldest  shrink! 
Photine:   a  wayworn  man  who  asked  me  for  a  drink. 
The  Priest:   Endiamonded  with  star  and  winged  with  light 

From  Heaven's  blue  dome  He  takes  His  awful  (light. 
Photine:    He  choose  the  little  footpath  that  we  tread. 

His  stars  arc  in  His  soul,  not  on  His  head. 
The  Priest:   He  cries  "To  disobey  the  Law  is  death." 
Photine:    He  says, — so  quietly, — "All  life  is  faith." 
The  Priest:  A  Warrior  whose  sword  smites  near  and  far! 
Photine:    He  is  the  peaceful  Enemy  of  war, — 

Ruin  of  ruin  and  the  Death  of  death ! 
The  Priest:  Whence  comes  this  prophet?    Every  scripture  saith 

Christ  is  the  Son  of  David's  royal  line. 
Photine:    Then  surely  Jesus  has  this  seal  and  sign. 

He  did  not  tell  me;  that  is  for  the  schools. 

I  know  His  hands  have  handled  workman's  tools. 

The  angels,  in  a  little  shop  somewhere. 

Have  kissed  the  shaving  tangled  in  His  hair! 

Docile,  He  fashioned  balances  and  yokes. 

The  Son  of  God,  He  toiled  like  simple  folks. 

And  making  yokes,  He  thought  of  all  we  bear, 

And  dreamied  of  justice,  making  balance  fair. 
A  Man:    Let's  go  to  Him! 
The  Priest:  'Tis  a  false  Christ! 

The  Man:  I'd  rue 

If,  fearing  false  Christs,  I  should  miss  the  true! 
A  Woman:  Oh,  lead  us  to  Him!     Leave  these  blind  and  dumb! 
Photine:   I  will  not  move  till  all  the  city  come! 
A   Man    {laughing  derisively)  : 

A  Christ  that  pardons  sinners!     Watch  mo  start! 
Photine:    His  words  bring  silence  to  a  clamorous  heart! 
Another  (scornfully)  :  A  gossiper  with  women  at  a  well! 


184  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Photine  :   White  shadows  on  my  soul  from  His  soul  fell. 
A  Merchant:    He's  beautiful  when  talking? 
Photine:  Oh,  He  shines! 

Never  man  spoke  like  this  Man.    Hear  the  signs 

That  make  His  Kingdom;  there  the  first  are  last, 

The  sad  learn  laughter,  pain  is  overpast. 

Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  the  weary,  blest; 

Those  shall  be  comforted  and  these  shall  rest. 
A  Merchant:    The  crowd  believes.     Her  triumph  seems  com- 
plete. 
Photine:    I'll  cry  what  He  has  said  from  street  to  street. 

{She  goes  out,  followed  by  the  crowd.) 
First  Old  Man  :   She  is  gone ! 

A  Merchant  {watching)  :  The  city  will  go  mad  before  she  stops! 
Another  Merchant  {calling  to  the  wings): 

Why  don't  you  fools  come  back  and  mind  your  shops? 
Another:    What  can  one  do?     One  needs  must  hear  her  speak. 
Photine's  Voice  {without)  : 

He  says,  "Ye  shall  be  very  strong,  ye  weak!" 
First  Merchant:  That  is  most  subversive.  That  must  never  be. 
Photine's  Voice  {farther  aivay)  : 

"And  ye  shall  judge  your  judges." 
An  Elder  {horrified)  :  Anarchy! 

Another:   What's  to  be  done? 
The  Priest:  Call  out  the  Romans. 

{To  a  Merchant)  Quick. 

{He  explains  in  a  whisper  what  is  to  be  said.     One  catches 
the  word.) 

Disturbs  the  public  peace   ...  a  mob   ...   a  trick. 
Photine's  Voice  {ivithout) : 

"Verily,  verily,"  this  Saviour  said, 

"My  gifts  are  for  the  disinherited." 
A  Merchant  {terror-stricken)  : 

Hark  to  the  words  that  echo  through  the  town! 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  185 

The  Priest  {to  his  messenger)  : 

Call  out  the  soldiers!     Strike  this  woman  down! 
This  leads  to  civil  war! 

Photine's  Voice  {icithout,  nearer)  :    He  says,  though  hard, 
The  narrow  way  is  best. 

The  Priest  {to  the  merchant)  :   Call  out  the  guard! 
{The  messenger  goes  off,  running.) 

Photine   {re-enters,  folloived  by  a  larger  cron'il)  : 
He  says,  again,  mere  learning  is  a  wraith, 
"Blest  are  the  poor  in  spirit,"  and  He  saith 
His  Kingdom  is   .    .    . 

A  Man   {who  follows  her,  trembling,  ecstatic)  : 

Hear  ye,  and  follow  her! 
These  are  not  mortal  words.     Too  deep  they  stir. 
Only  a  God  could  paint  these  words  of  dawn. 
What  said  He  more,  Photine?     Photine,  say  on! 

Photine:    He  said,  "Be  gentle,  meek,  admit,  confess. 
Be  of  good  cheer.     Love  peace  and  cheerfulness. 
Do  unto  others  as  ye  would  that  they 
Should  do  to  you.     All  Law  ye  thus  obey. 
Blessed  are  ye  when  all  men  shall  revile"   .    .    . 
What  can  I  tell?       New  words.    And  all  the  while 
One  word  comes  back  the  other  words  to  prove, 
Love,  love,  love  always.     Heaven  is  only  love. 
"My  Father  loves  the  loving."     And  He  said, 
"Give  all  things  for  love."     "Give  the  half  of  your  bread 
To  the  tiresomest  neighbor's  untimeliest  demand." 
"If  ye  come  to  my  altar,  a  gift  in  your  hand, 
And  remember  a  wrong  you  have  failed  to  appease, 
Leave  your  gift  and  come  not  before  God  on  your  knees 
Till  your  brother  forgives  you,  and  then,  reconciled, 
You  may  come  before  God  like  His  confident  child." 
"Loving  brothers  is  easy.     That  much  heathen  do! 
'Tis  a  light  thing  to  love  who  has  first  loved  you. 
But  love  your  oppressors,  the  cruel,  the  strong. 
And  seventy  times  seven  forgive  every  wrong." 


186  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

"I  love  them  thathate  Me;" — that  sin  against  love. 

"If  any  hurt  you,  let  your  patience  reprove. 

If  one  snatches  thy  coat,  give  him  also  thy  cloak. 

Love  ingrates.     Let  injuries  vanish  in  smoke. 

Love  your  enemies,  so  shall  ye  be  of  My  friends. 

Love  freely.     The  love  ye  receive  never  ends. 

Love  more!     And  love  always!     Whatever  befall. 

Ah,  love  one  another  as  I  have  loved  all ! 

Love  much.    When  one  loves,  life  is  little  to  pay. 

What  that  love  truly  means,  I  will  show  you  some  day. 

Love  greatly,  Love  only  can  conquer  the  world. 

Love  forever!" 
All  {falling  on  their  knees)  : 

O,  where  is  His  banner  unfurled? 

Take  us  to  Him. 
Tumultuous  Cries:   The  Christ!     Son  of  David.     Our  King! 

{At  this  inoment,  all,  enthusiastically  form  a  column  behind 
Photine,  and  start  to  go  out  through  the  city  gate.  They 
are  roughly  forced  back  by  the  Roman  soldiers,  who  pour  in 
at  the  gate.     The  centurion  appears.) 

SCENE  IV 
The  Same.    The  Centurion,  the  Soldiers 

The  Centurion:  Open  sedition!    We  have  heard  this  thing. 

Disperse !    What  king  is  he  whom  you  acclaim  ? 

Who  is  that  woman  ?    Let  us  know  her  name. 

Seize  her  at  once! 
Photine  {as  the  soldiers  bind  her  hands) : 

All's  lost!    Oh,  all  is  lost! 

I  cannot  lead  them!   .    .    . 
The  Cexturion   {angrily  to  the  crowd)  : 

Shall  my  will  be  crossed? 

No  groups!   ...   no  whispering!     Be  well  afraid! 

{To  the  Merchants.) 

Ye  simple  merchants,  ply  your  little  trade! 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  187 

{To  Photine.) 

Leader  of  mobs, — you'd  teach  them  to  withstand 

Caesar,  his  laws,  his  taxes  on  the  land. 

What  did  you  speak  of? 
Photine:  Only  .    .    . 

The  Centurion   {to  the  soldier  uho  is  tightiuo  the  cords  about 

Photine's  urists)  :  Make  it  press! 

Photine:   Only  of  mercy  and  of  gentleness, 

Of  pity  and  of  love. 
The  Centurion:  What  else? 

A  Man  {earnestly)  :   That's  all. 
Another   {earnestly)  :  No  more. 

The  Priest:    She  spoke  of  the  Messiah. 
The  Crowd  {with  indignation):    Oh! 
The  Centurion  {to  Photine,  ironically)  :  Ah,  you'd  restore 

The  kingdom,  then?     Rome,  be  assured,  is  grateful. 

{To  the  soldiers,  laughing.) 

She  speaks  of  their  Messiah,  that  vision  fateful 

Whom  Hebrews  seek  as  their  Deliverer 

To  free  them  from  Rome's  rule.    Lay  hold  of  her! 

Pilate  shall  hear  of  her  Messiah's  giory. 

Forward ! 
Photine  {aside)  :   All's  lost. 
The  Priest  {to  the  Centurion)  :   She  tells  a  stirring  story 

To  move  the  mob, — that  Christ  is  near  to  us. 

And  the  poor  fool  has  dared  to  honor  thus 

An  unknown  fellow,  who  no  doubt  conspires, 

A  man  of  Nazareth. 
The  Centurion:    Now  by  my  household  fires, 

A  man  of  Nazareth  ?    Why,  I  know  the  Man. 

{To  the  soldiers.) 

We  heard  of  him  before  this  stir  began, — 

The  fellow  with  a  cure  for  leprosy, 

A  carpenter,  the  Man  of  Galilee. 
The  Priest:    From  such  disturbers  Caesar  swiftly  frees  us. 
The  Centurion:   Joshua  the  fellow's  called, — or  is  it  Jesus? 
The  Priest:    'Tis  he. 


188  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  Centurion:   What,  Jesus?    Wh)-,  I  little  thought 
That  I  was  going.  .    .    .  After  all,  'tis  naught.  .    ,    . 
He  will  not  work  us  harm,  so  much  I  know. 
{To  the  soldiers.) 
Twas  only  Jesus!    Let  the  woman  go ! 

Photine  {delivered  from  her  bonds)  :  Heaven! 

The  Centurion  :  A  Jew,  just  touched  with  melancholy. 
I  myself  saw  Him  do  an  act  of  folly. 
'Twas  at  Jerusalem  a  month  ago. 
Of  Fort  Antonia's  guard,  I  watched  below 
The  temple,  and  the  folk,  and  all  they  did, 
I  marked  a  figure  that  could  not  be  hid. 
So  very  white  his  robe;  His  gestures  free 
Spoke  of  some  Essene  out  of  En-Gaddi, 
Preacher  or  prophet, — I  cared  not  to  probe. 
Twelve  black  robes  followed  close  the  linen  robe. 
And  so  this  group,  still  talking,  shortly  trod 
Close  to  the  place  where  Jews,  to  serve  their  God, 
Make  change,  installed  at  many  a  little  table, 
On  weights,  which,  rumor  says,  are  never  stable. 
In  this  amazing  temple,  merchants  vend 
Salt,  oil,  sheep,  cattle,  wares  without  an  end. 
The  beasts  were  tied  with  bits  of  cord  and  strings. 
All  suddenly  this  Man  a  strong  arm  flings 
Free  of  his  mantle  takes  those  broken  strands. 
Twists  them  together,  and  with  mighty  hands 
Drives  all  before  him  like  a  herd, — in  short, 
Left  not  a  gouty  merchant  in  the  court. 
He  overthrew  their  stalls, — quite  furious 
Yet  quite  serene;  the  thing  was  very  curious. 
The  people  cheered.     We  Romans  laughed  aloud. 
That  Man  will  never  lead  a  lawless  crowd. 
The  temple's  cleanser  will  not  harm  the  throne. 
He  says:    "Give  Caesar  what  is  Caesar's  own." 

The  Priest:   You  have  not  heard  the  woman. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  189 

The  Centuriox    {laughing  and  remounting)  :    I  prefer 

To  lose  that  pleasure. 
The  Priest  {trying  to  detain  him):    Listen! 
The  Centurion:  My  good  sir, 

I've  better  things  to  do. 
The  Priest:  What  things? 

The  Centurion:  To  lie  beneath  a  tree, 

— For  choice,  a  fig-tree, — and  to  take  with  me 

Horace,  best  underscored,  as  I  have  planned, 

By  the  blue  finger  of  a  leafy  hand. 
The  Priest:  But  ... 

The  Centurion  {drily)  :    Breaking  my  leisure  may  be  fraught 
with  danger. 

{To  the  people.) 

Keep  your  Messiah,  this  Galilean  stranger. 

{To  the  soldiers,  as  he  goes  out.) 

I  think  this  quiet  blond  young  carpenter 

Is  not  the  man  to  set  the  world  astir. 

SCENE  V 
The  Same,  without  The  Centurion  and  the  Soldiers 

Photine:    Now,  let  us  hasten. 

{Murmurs.) 
A  Man  :  I'll  do  no  such  thing. 

Photine:    Why? 

Another:    He  fawns  on  Cassar,    He  is  not  my  king. 
Another:    The  true  Messiah  will  win  the  throne  for  us. 
Another:    He  pays  the  tax? 
Another:  Accepts  Tiberius? 

Photine:    I^ord,  Lord  they  want  what  is  so  little  worth! 

— The  Kingdom  that  He  brings  is  not  of  earth. 

You  think  of  who  shall  govern  in  the  land. 

Oh,  try  to  listen,  trj'  to  understand ! 

This  Kingdom  is  eternal.     We  shall  be 

Hidden  and  safe  and  glorious  and  free. 


190  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Samaritans,  we  know  what  ages  since 

Began  our  buffetings  from  prince  to  prince! 

We  are  the  quarry,  hunted  through  the  rocks 

Whether  by  Roman  wolf  or  Jewish  fox. 

What  does  it  matter?     Give  with  just  disdain, 

His  own  to  Caesar.     And  our  own  retain. 
All:    But  yes   ... 

A  Man:  The  Kingdom? 

Photine:  It  is  not  of  earth. 

Since  not  a  king,  but  God,  has  given  it  birth. 
Another:   How  will  we  know  the  kingdom, — this  new  leaven? 
Photine:    First  in  yourselves,  and  afterwards,  in  heaven. 
Several  Voices:    Ourselves? 
Photine  {going  from  one  to  another)  : 

The  tree  will  grow,  if  but  the  seed  be  in. 

Wish  only,  and  the  Kingdom  will  begin. 

For  all!     For  all!     Be  loving.     And  be  true. 

And  you  will  find  the  Kingdom.     You! — and  you! 

Stonecutter,  you  will  work,  in  happy  wise, 

For  through  the  shade  that  guards,  and  blinds,  your  eyes, 

Will  filter  in  some  rays  of  this  new  Light ! 

Carver  of  jewels  and  of  silver  bright, 

Your  fingers  will  be  fanned,  to  cool  their  aching, 

By  wings  of  silver  cherubs  you  are  making! 

Woodworker,  sawing  countless  panels  thin, 

Acacia,  cedar,  fir — to  set  them  in 

The  rich  man's  alcoves, — you  will  bless  the  toil 

That  makes  the  forest's  balms  your  daily  spoil! 

Weavers,  you'll  pity  those  for  wliom  ye  weave ! 

Lacemakers,  you  no  longer  will  believe 

That  they  are  happier  who  wear  your  laces! 

Gladness  will  find  you  in  the  darkest  places. 

Potter,  the  finest  glaze  is  made  of  love! 

Sliepherds,  ye'll  gladly  seek  the  sheep  that  rove! 

Each  will  be  liappy  at  his  useful  trade. 

You'll  whistle,  basket  makers,  as  ye  braid! 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  191 

The  Priest:  'Tis  but  a  hope,  this  kingdom  in  the  cloud! 
Photine:  Have  you  a  better  hope,  to  feed  this  crowd? 
Cries  from  All:  Yes!    Follow  her!    She'll  take  us  to  the  King. 

A  dulcimer!     A  lute!     Come,  let  us  sing! 
A  Merchant:   I  go,  but  not  believing,  just  to  see! 
Photine:    Come,  just  the  same! 
Azriel:  I  go  but  hupclessly, 

Only  to  act. 
Photine:  Come,  just  the  same! 

A  Young  Man  {boldly)  :  Well,  blame 

Your  beauty  if  I  go. 
Photine:  Come,  just  the  same! 

Come,  gathering  branches  from  the  olive  tree, 

No  matter  why  ye  come!     But  come  and  see! 
The  Priest:   Ah,  well,  I'll  go.    For  it  may  be  at  least 

Her  Christ  will  found  a  cult  and  make  me  priest. 
Photine:    Oh,  come!     March  on  and  sing  His  psalms! 

"Oh,  come  with  trumpet  and  with  shawms." 
All  the  Crowd  {taking  up  the  Psalm  with  a  mighty  cry  of  en- 
thusiasm) : 

Oh,  come  with  shawms  all  blazoned  o'er 

With  pearl,  with  coral,  and  with  gold. 

Oh,  come  with  trumpets  manifold 

And  sing  His  praise  Whom  we  adore. 

{ The  Crowd,  led  by  Photine,  is  engulfed  in  the  great  gate- 
way, and  the  Psalm  re-echoes  from  the  open  country.) 

Be  joyful,  earth,  before  your  King, 

Ye  seas,  O  clap  your  hands  and  sing. 

Ye  floods  .   .   .  ye  hills  .    .    . 

( Curtain  ) 


THIRD  PART 

Salvator  Mundi 

Again  Jacob's  Well.  Jesus  is  sitting  on  the  well-curb.  The 
sun  is  low  in  the  west.  The  sky  is  gold  and  pink.  The  Disciples 
are  grouped  at  a  little  distance  from  the  Master.  They  are  finish- 
ing the  poor  meal  they  secured  by  their  random  purchases.  Seated, 
or  lying  on  their  stomachs,  they  tnake  a  circle  around  a  little  fire, 
which  smolders-  and  then  sends  up,  very  straight  in  the  still  air, 
a  thin  thread  of  blue. 

They  whisper  and  look  furtively,  from  time  to  time,  at  Jesus. 
They  are  troubled.    Jesus  is  in  a  dream. 


SCENE  I 

Jesus  and  His  disciples 

Peter  {in  a  low  voice,  indignantly)  :    He  spoke  to  her! 
Andrew  {same  manner)  :  That  woman! 
James  {same  manner)  :  Spoke  to  her! 

Peter:    I  dare  not  blame  Him,  but  one  must  demur   . 

Strangely  imprudent, — that  we  must  declare. 
Andrew:    Why  does  he  fast?    This  is  not  greedy  fare. 
Peter:    'Tis  to  astonish  us,  I'll  stake  my  word! 
Jesus  :   Not  for  that  reason,  Simon. 
John:  Oh,  He  heard! 

Peter:    I  spoke  too  loud. 
Nathanael:   Then,  Master,  why? 

192 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  193 

Peter   {in  a  low  tone)  :  I   think 

It  is  to  prove  He  needs  not  meat  nor  drink! 
Jesus:  Nay,  I  have  meat  that  yet  ye  know  not  of. 
Peter  {lowering  his  voice)  : 

Who  could  have  brought  it?     From  the  hill  above? 
John:    Perhaps  the  angels  bring  Him  nourishment! 
Jesus:    To  do  the  work  whercunto  I  was  sent, — 

This  is  my  secret  food  that  never  fails. 
Peter  {still  lower,  captiously)  : 

That  will  that  took  us  by  these  hills  and  vales, 
Valley  of  Sichar! 
John:  But  it  had  to  be   .    .    . 

Peter:   Better  a  longer  walk  to  Galilee 

By  w^ay  of  Sharon. 
Nathanael:  Or  of  Jordan's  plain. 

Andrew:   Just  taste  this  bread !     Rock!     I'll  not  come  again 
{He  throws  the  loaf  away.) 
Into  Samaria!     Curse  it  mile  by  mile! 
Peter:    Do  you  believe  that  it  can  be  worth  while 
Thus  to  seek  out  the  mean,  the  vile,  the  low? 
Jesus:    It  is  the  scattered  sheep  to  whom  I  go. 
John:    Speak  lower. 
James:  That's  His  plan.    'Twill  be  a  snare 

That  gets  us  killed. 
John:  The  Master  bears  His  share. 

Peter:   But  what  good  is  it?    And  whom  seek  we  here? 
What  does  He  at  this  well,  where  none  draws  near 
To  listen  but  this  woman  with  her  cruise? 
Ye  know  I  doubt  Him  not,  but  He  might  choose. 
To  win  the  people, — if  that  be  His  end, — 
Some  fitter  ally  and  some  worthier  friend ! 
James:    Clean  hands  alone  are  fit  to  sow  good  seed. 
Peter:   A  harlot! 
James:  Moses'  law  has  taught  indeed 

Such  women  should  be  stoned,  so  black  their  sin. 
Peter:   If  T  would  win  a  citv  .    .    . 


194  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

James  :  You'd  begin  ?   .    .    . 

Peter:   I'd  choose  the  prosperous,  the  proud,  the  stable, — 

Priest  at  his  altar,  changer  at  his  table. 

One,  who  has  influence,  can  lead  the  rest. 

I'd  try  to  win  one  soul,  but  that  the  best. 

That  is  the  way  I'd  take  to  win  a  city. 
Andrew  {shaking  his  head)  : 

To  waste  such  time  as  His  seems  such  a  pity. 
Peter:    Sometimes  the  iMaster  seems  to  mock,  almost, — 

The  meanest  city  of  the  meanest  coast 

Of  the  last  people,  and  among  these  last 

To  choose  a  woman, — and  that  one  outcast. 
Jesus:    O  children,  water  is  for  those  who  thirst. 

For  Me,  the  first  are  last,  the  last  are  first ! 
Peter  (aside)  :  I'll  speak  no  more.    Our  lowest  word  is  caught. 

(He  gets  up  and  stands  looking  at  a  field  of  young  wheat.) 

(Silence.) 
Jesus:   No. 

James:  To  what  didst  Thou  say  no? 

Jesus:  To  Peter's  thought. 

Peter  (turning,  astonished)  :    Master! 
John  (crying  out  suddenly)  :  I  die  of  thirst! 

Andrew:  'Tis  all  their  fault. 

The  cruel  pagans  filled  the  rice  with  salt! 
Nathanael:    How  can  we  drink? 
Andrew  :  We  have  no  cruise. 

John  :  That  one. 

You  know   .    .    .   has  left   .    .    . 
James:  What? 

John  :  Her  cruise. 

Peter:  It  can't  be  done; 

'Tis  infamy  to  touch,  by  all  our  school. 

Oh,  keep  your  hands  away! 
John  (his  two  hands  on  the  water-pot)  :   It  feels  so  cool. 

I  am  so  thirsty. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  195 

Peter:  It  is  not  for  us, — 

Poison,  uncleanness !  .    .    . 
John:  Is  it  poisonous? 

Peter:    Doubly, — for  in  this  cruise,  as  well  we  know, 

Are  vice  and  infamy. 
John  :  So  much  the  worse.     I   .    .    . 

{He  drinks.)  Oh! 

Nathanael:  What  is  it? 
John   {handing  him  the  pitcher)  :  Taste! 
Nathanael    {having  tasted):  Oh! 

Andrew:   What  is  it? 

Nathanael  {handing  it  to  him)  :  Taste! 

Andrew  {same  play)  :  Oh! 

James:  What?     What  is  it? 

Andrew  :  Taste ! 

James:       What  pearl  from  heaven  is  in  this  pitcher  placed? 
Nathanael:    Tis  honey! 
Andrew  :  Flowers  distilled  ! 

John:  One  weeps  in  tasting! 

Peter:    What  left  she  here,  forth  on  her  errand  hasting? 
Jesus:    She  has  left  within  this  cruise 

Lightness  of  an  idle  heart; 

Cruel  pride  that  bade  her  choose 

Snares  and  every  subtle  art. 

She  has  left  her  heavy  sins, 

Evil  dreams  and  wishes  wrong, 

Mirth  that  ends  ere  it  begins, 

Empty  laughter,  soulless  song. 

Sighs  for  every  worthless  cause, 

All  the  darkness  of  her  soul. 
Peter:    Master,  by  what  wondrous  laws     . 

Can  such  parts  compose  this  whole? 
Jesus:   The  sweetness  ye  find  in  a  draught  from  this  cruise 

Comes  not  from  lilies  the  distillers  bruise, 

Nor  honey-comb  all  golden-sweet. 

The  sweetness  ye  find  I  alone  can  distill, 


196  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

From  weakness,  from  sin,  from  all  harm,  from  all  ill, 

Left,  clean  forsaken,  at  My  feet. 
Peter  {drinking)  :  Divine  refreshment  from  this  earthen  brink, — 

My  lips  can  listen  and  my  ears  can  drink! 

{He  puts  down  the  pitcher.) 

Master,  when  Thou  saidst  No,  and  seemed  so  plain 

To  read  my  thought,  'twas  of  ?   .    .    . 
Jesus:  The  ripened  grain. 

You  thought  about  my  story,  and  this  field 

And  the  long  months  before  the  fruitful  yield. 
Peter:   Yes,  four  long  months  before  the  bending  skies 

Will  see  the  harvest. 
Jesus  :  No. 

Peter:  What? 

Jesus:  Lift  thine  eyes! 

Peter:    Why,  Master? 
Jesus:  Lift  thine  eyes!    The  field  is  white! 

Put  in  j'our  sickle!     Harvest  it  aright! 

Now,  'twixt  the  wheat  and  tares  make  ye  your  choice. 

One  sows,  another  reaps,  and  all  rejoice! 

Blessed  injustice!     Nearer  brother  grows 

To  brother,  he  who  reaps  and  he  who  sows. 

The  Harvester  has  sent  you  to  the  fields. 

Lift  up  your  eyes  and  see  the  grain  it  yields. 
Peter:   Truly,  one  sees,  where  the  last  pink  cloud  roves, 

The  fields  look  white  to  harvest. 
John  :  Look !    It  moves ! 

The  Crowd  (in  the  distance)  :   O  come  with  trumpets! 
Nathanael:  And  it  sings! 

Peter:   What  is  this  harvest  that  so  rings 

With  gladness? 

( 71iey   have  all  climbed  the  little   hill  and  look  across  the 
fields.) 
Andrew:   All  the  city  comes! 
John:  And  see 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  197 

How,  like  white  foam  upon  a  darker  sea, 

Througli  the  black  gate   .    .    . 
Peter:  As  if  a  mighty  Hand, 

Pressing  the  walls,  forbids  them  to  withstand. 
The  Crowd:   O  come  with  dulcimers   .    .    . 
Peter:  Ah,  say, 

What  form  so  grandly  lead  the  way? 
Jesus  {sitting  motionless  at  the  well)  : 

They  seek  the  well,  who  know  the  bitterest  thirst; 

So  shall  the  first  be  last,  the  last  be  first. 
The  Crowd  {drawing  nearer)  :  To  honor  Ilim  If'ho  comes  .    .    . 
John  :  O  hark! 

Peter    {to   Jesus)  :    Forgive   me.    Lord,   who   was  so   slow    to 

mark  .   .   . 
The  Crowd:   Earth,  thy  salvation  draweth  nigh. 
John:   Lord,  come  and  see! 

Nathanael:  The  meadows  cry! 

Peter:    Where  have  they  found  such  myriad  roses? 
James:    Come,  Lord! 
Jesus:  I  see. 

Peter:  To  see,  His  eyes  He  closes. 

Jesus:    I  saw  them  in  my  heart  so  long  ago! 
The  Crowd:   Floods,  clap  your  hands.     Ye  seas,  your  trumpets 

blow. 
Andrew:  They  are  nearly  here. 
Photine's  Voice   {singing,  very  near)  :    Ye  oceans,  move. 

Rejoice  together,  all  ye  lands. 

Hills,  shout  aloud  to  Him  we  love, 

Ye  ivater  floods,  clap,  clap  your  hands. 
Peter:   This  voice  that  sings? 

Jesus  :  Photine's.    For  Me. 

Photine  {appearing  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  breathless,  dishev- 
elled, her  arms  full  of  flowers  gathered  as  she  ran.  her  eyes 
splendid)  :     Master,  the  city  comes  to  Thee. 

(She  is  preceded  by  a  throng  of  excited  children,  ii'ho  turn- 


198  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

ble  recklessly  down  the  footpath,  sliding  down  the  hill, 
waving  olive  branches.  She  is  followed  by  a  throng  that 
fills  the  stage,  a  throng  that  rushes  to  throw  itself  upon 
Jesus.  Jesus  rises.  The  crowd  checks  itself.  There  is 
silence. ) 

SCENE  II 

The  Same.     All  the  Samaritans 

Jesus:    Photine!  .    .    . 

Photine   {in  an  ecstacy)  :    They  come,  a  throng  entranced. 

I  know  not  what  I  said,  not  how  it  chanced. 

— I  lost  my  bracelet,  running  through  the  field, — 

Is  it  not  true  the  lepers  shall  be  healed? 

— I  told  them  all.  He  heals  whate'er  He  touches. 

Lord,  see  the  lame,  with  garlands  on  their  crutches! 

See  the  young  maids!     Their  singing  was  so  sweet! 

The  soldiers  checked  us  on  the  city  street, 

But  we  came  running. — Take  this  wild  rose,  Lord.   .    .    . 

You  palsied  man,  draw  near  and  be  restored. 

The  children  danced  and  sang.     They  understood. 

Why,  look !    My  hands  are  scratched  and  stained  with  blood, 

I  broke  so  many  branches  on  the  way. 

All  Sichem  is  deserted  for  a  day. 

This  baby  was  the  first  who  wished  to  start. 

This  young  man  came,  though  doubting  in  his  heart. 

And  just  in  coming,  he  has  lost  his  doubt. 

The  very  starting  put  them  all  to  rout! 

The  merchants  only  thought  I  injured  trade; 

The  priest  condemned.     But  I  was  not  afraid. 

I  spoke  Thy  Word,  scarce  knowing  whence  it  was. 

— Oh,  let  me  breathe  the  perfume  of  this  grass, — 

Some  power  from  God  in  my  poor  voice  was  vested. 

In  vain  the  merchants  threatened  and  protested. 

I  think  the  women  gladly  heard  my  story. 

I  laugh  for  joy!     Whence  comes  this  inner  glory? 

Lord,  let  them  kiss  Thy  robe!     Thy  people  came 


THE  JVOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  199 

To  worship!     I  will  call  them  all  by  name. 

Thou  Who  knowest  all,  Thou  knowest  all  have  come, 

And  thou  wouldst  know  their  names,  though  I  were  dumb. 

This  one  is  Thamar.     Pcninah  is  here. 

New  people  come.     O  look !     Both  far  and  near, 

The  field  is  white  with   multitudes   that   press. 

I  choke  with  sobs, — but  all  for  happiness. 

Jesus:    You  won  the  town  for  Me. 

Photine:  Nay,  it  was  thine  own. 

I  only  told  them  where  to  find  Thy  throne. 
Daughter  of  folly,  made  a  prophetess, 
I  bore  Thy  word  to  these  Thou  camest  to  bless. 
But  it  was  Thou,  O   Silent  One  divine, 
Who  looked  upon  the  town  and  made  it  Thine. 
O  white-robed  Warrior,  the  soul's  true  Liege, 
Thou  girdest  Sichem  with   an   unseen  siege. 

0  Conqueror  divine,  O  Foeman  tender, 

1  won  it  not!     Thine  own  to  Thee  we  render! 
I  have  no  strength,  no  might,  nor  any  share, 
Except  my  joy,  that  I  am  chosen  to  bear 

The  keys  of  this  Thy  city.     My  sole  part, 

Keys  of  these  hearts  to  give  Thee,  on  my  heart! 
A  Man  :    The  crowd  stands  motionless,  by  some  strange  law. 

'Tis  like  a  lion  whose  enormous  paw 

Scarce  dares  to  hold  the  snowy  lamb  it  felled. 
Another:   This  shouting,  crazy  crowd  in  silence  held 

Dares  hardly  breathe. 
A  WoiMan:  It  is  fitting  to  be  dumb 

Before  a  King. 
Photine:  I  hear  a  scarab  hum. 

A  Woman:    Give  us  this  living  water,  Lord,  we  pray! 
Photine:    See,  in  their  hands  the  olive  branches  sway 

Though  not  a  breath  is  stirring  in  the  trees. 
Azriel:    Who  is  this  man  who  sways  me  like  a  breeze, — 

This  Harvester  whose   fan  is  in   His  hand? 

My  soul  seems  waking  at  some  loud  command. 


200  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

A  Man  :    We  are  vile  folk,  deserving  everj'  fling 

The  Jews  can  cast ! 
Jesus:  Ye  need  my  shepherding. 

Another:   Black  sheep,  O  Shepherd,  thin,  and  used  to  keep 

To   rocky   ridges ! 
Jesus:  Still  ye  are  My  sheep. 

I  know  my  sheep  in  whatsoever  fold. 

The  shepherd  loves  the  lamb,  strayed,  bleating,  cold. 

Though  all  but  one  be  folded,  I  no  less 

Will  seek  that  lost  one  in  the  wilderness. 

Will  call  until  it  hears  and  knows  My  voice, 

Then  lay  it  on  my  shoulders  and  rejoice. 

Oh,  I  will  seek  untiring,  day  and  night. 

Till  all  My  flock,  the  black  sheep  and  the  white, 

By  My  light  crook  all  tenderly  controlled, 

Obey  one  Shepherd,  happy  in  one  fold. 
A  Young  Man  :    I  feel  baptismal  waters  on  my  brow. 
A  Woman:    Oh,  touch  my  tears! 
Another  Woman:  Oh,  bless  my  child! 

An  Old  Man:  -  Lord,  now 

Thy  servant  could  depart  in  peace  to  Thee ! 
A  Young  Girl:    I  never  hoped  that  He  would  look  at  me! 
A  Man:    How  graciously  His  lovely  head  is  bowed! 
A  Woman    (coming  forward  out   of  the  throng)  : 

0  Lord,  I  sought  to  hide  me  in  the  crowd, 

1  feared  Thine  ej'es  that  see  the  stain  within ! 
Jesus  :  I  raised  thy  sister  taken  in  her  sin. 

A  Merchant:    Canst  Thou  forgive  me,  Scourger  of  my  kind, 

That  to  true  riches  I  have  been  so  blind. 

— Loving  all  gold  but  that  laid   up  above? 
Jesus:    'Twas  only  from  the  temple  that  I  drove 

The  merchants. 
The  Drunkard:       Couldst  Tiiou  even  pardon  me. 

Giver  of  water,  living,  lasting,  free. 

That  I  have  mingled   stronger  drink  with   mine? 
Jesus   {smiling)  :  In  Galilee,  I  made  the  water  wine. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  201 

The  Priest:  For  such  a  Christ,  no  blow  I'll  ever  strike, 

Forgiving  drunkards,  harlots  and  the  like. 
Jesus   {with  angir)  :    I  tell  thee,  hjpocrite   .    .    . 

(At  this  moment,  the  children  begin  to  dance  and  sing.) 
Peter  {severely,  to  a  woman)  :  Take  them  away. 

Jesus   {turning  quickly)  : 

Forbid  them  not.     V'ou  know  not  what  jou  say. 

I  love  their  happy  songs,  their  motions  free. 

Suffer  the  little  ones  to  come  to  Me. 

Bring  here,  Photine,  those  two  who,  all  dismayed, 

Hide  in  thy  gown. 
Photine:  Come,  loves,  be  not  afraid! 

The  Priest:   You  answer  not. 
Jesus:  The  answer  is  prepared. 

Photine:  Ye  see  this  Lord  Whom  David  lord  declared, — 

The  children  play  He  bids  us  not  forbid  ; 

He  calls  no  bears,  as  once  Elisha  did. 

One  nestles  in  His  arms,  all  comforted. 

His  hand  is  on  the  other's  curly  head. 
Jesus:    O  beautiful  new  eyes.     Have  ye  such  eyes! 

So  shall   ye  enter  into  paradise! 
{To  the  children) 

Will  you  repeat — let  no  one  say  them  nay, — 

The  words  you   sang  as  you   began   to   play? 
A  Child:    fVe  piped  a  dance; 

You  wouldn't  play; 
Another  Child:    fVe  bade  you  cry; 

You  said  us  nay. 
Jesus:     Simon,    your   frowns   your   tender   heart   belie. 

The  little  song  has  furnished  my  reply. 

Does  it  not  fit  the  people  of  this  time 

Whose  thoughts  \vith  other's  never  seem  to  chime  ? 

First,  John  the  Baptist  with  his  message  stern. 
Dark,  lonely,  roughly  clad  and  taciturn. 
Burning  with  zeal,  denouncing,  scourging  evil 
Ye  said  of  him  "the  fellow  hath  a  devil." 


202  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Eating  and  drinking  came  the  Son  of  Man, 

And  ye  who  hated  John  this  time  began, 

"A  glutton,  who  is  everybody's  friend." 

The  child's  song  answers  all  who  thus  contend. 

Watch  but  that  baby  singing  as  she  skips, 

And  hark  to  wisdom  from  an  infant's  lips. 
A  Merchant:   He  Who  so  loves,  yet  so  superbly  hurled 

That  challenge,  ic  the  Saviour  of  the  World. 
A  Man:    Saviour  and  Master! 
Photine:  And  a  King  to  give 

Courage  to  die! 
Azriel:  He  gives  me  cause  to  live! 

A  Young  AIan:    His  finger  graves  gold  letters  on  my  heart! 
Another:    From  His  heart  to  my  own,  there  seems  to  start 

A  rainbow  bridge,  an  endless,  perfect  arch ! — 
A  Man  {guided  by  Photine  to  Jesus)  :    I  am  blind. 
Jesus:  Receive  thy  sight! 

A  Man   {carried  by  attendants)  :  I  am  lame. 
Jesus:  '  Arise  and  march! 

The  Crowd:    A  miracle! 

Jesus  {to  another)  :       Ask  what  thou  wilt?    Speak! 
A  Man:  I  .    .   .  was  .    .    .  dumb. 

A  Man  {advancing)  :  I  had  a  heart  deadened  and  hard  and  numb. 

I  longed  to  weep,  a  moment  gone, — but  now 

I  cannot  weep.   .    .    .   'Tis  diflicult. 
Jesus:  Weep,  thou. 

Peter:    How  blest  we  are,  who  sees  the  works  you  do, — 

Such  marvels.   Master! 
Jesus:  Ye  shall  do  them,  too. 

Andrew:    Who?     We? 
Jesus:  Yes,  some  day  I  must  speed  you  on  your  way 

To  do  my  works. 
Peter:  Ourselves?     O  glorious  day! 

Jesus:    Set  not  your  heart  on  any  earthly  prize. 

But  that  your  names  are  written  in  the  skies. 


THE  PFOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  203 

Photine:    It  will  be  midnight  when  Thou  goest  away. 
Bring  not  that  darkness  yet.     Ah,   Master,  stay. 

Stay,  O  Lord ;  a  little  rest  ; 
Lighten  us  with   this  new  light. 
What !  God's  Son  has  been  our  guest, 
Going  hence  when  dawn  is  bright? 

An  Old  Man  :  Come  to  my  house  a  while  and  stay 
To  rest  Thee  from  Thy  kind  fatigues. 
Surely  Thou  must  not  go  away 
Till  Thou  hast  tasted  of  my  figs! 

A  Courtesan:   Stay,  Lord,  and  speak!     Here  are  the  flowers 
Thy  look  has  shaken  from  my  head. 
Chains  decked  these  painted  cheeks  of  ours. 
Here,  Lord,  are  streaming  tears  instead. 

A  Woman:    Returning  from  Thy  tasks  divine, 
When  all  the  sick  are  visited, 
Thou'lt  drink  of  my  pomegranate  wine 
And  learn  what  perfume  it  can  shed. 

Photine:   Reverently,  O  Lord,  we  will 
Every  wish  of  Thine  obey. 
All  the  city  will  be  still 
At  the  hour  when  Thou  wouldst  pray. 

A  Woman:    At  evening,  Lord,  when  every  tone 
Is  sweet,  mysterious  and  clear, 
At  each  low  threshold  seek  Thine  own 
And  we  will  heed  Thee,  drawing  near. 

A  Little  Girl:   If  Thy  white  cloak  fall  to  the  ground, 
— Our  evening  breeze  might  chill  Thee,  Lord. — 
We  girls  would  wrap  it  softly  round, 
But  never  interrupt  a  word. 


204  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Photine  :   Speaking  to  our  souls'  distresses, 
Thou  shall  feel,  among  us  there, 
'Neath  Thy  hand,  a  baby's  tresses, 
At  Thy  feet  a  woman's  hair. 

(Each  one,  speaking,  has  come  to  kneel  before  Jesus^  letting 
fall  the  bunch  of  olive  or  the  garland  of  roses.  At  Pho- 
TINe's  last  word,  they  kneel  and  unbind  their  hair.) 

Jesus:   Two  daj-s  with  you  I'll  rest,  I  can  do  no  more. 
Be  all  men's  guest  and  knock  at  every  door. 

A  Woman:     ,    .    .    And  then,   set  forth,  more  straying  lambs 
to  seek! 

Photine:   And  when,  departing,  Thou  wilt  climb  a  peak 
Of  Ephraim's  mountains,  cutting  our  blue  skies, 
About  whose  feet  Jezreel's  flowered  mantle  lies. 
Thine  eyes  will  find  a  little,  hidden  place. 
Like  a  small  flock,  safe  huddled  in  one  space, 
— The  synagogue  its  fold,  one  not  too  clean — 
First  home  of  Him  they  call  the  Nazarene. 

Jesus:    O  cruel  Nazareth,  whose  smallest  street 
Has  known  the  pressure  of  my  infant  feet. 
Thou  wilt  not  hear  the  words  of.  such  an  one, — 
"The  carpenter; — the  carpenter's  young  son," 
Always  'tis  true, — mine  own  receive  me  not; 
I  seek  my  brothers  and  behold  my  lot, 
— O  wondrous  earnest  of  my  Father's  plans! — 
My  brothers,  sisters,  are  Samaritans! 
In  his  own  land  no  prophet  is  esteemed. 
— To  do  my  Father's  will  is  all  I  dreamed. 

Cries:    Hosannah!     Praise  to  Christ!     Take  up  the  song! 

Jesus:  Seeking  these  .  .   .  heathen  .   .  .  Simon,  was  I  wrong? 

Photine  {pointing  to  the  twilight  sky)  :  The  evening  falls.   This 
dear  day  seeks  to  die. 
It  cannot  die.     When  Jacob's  well  is  dry, 
When  yonder  olive  tree  is  dust  again 
With  yonder  fig; — renewing  all  the  plain 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA  205 

And  every  hill,  forth  from  this  valley  green, 
The  living  flood  shall  bathe  the  world. 
Jesus  :  Photine, 

Thy  Image,  too,  the  world  will  never  lose, 
Treading  the  footpath  with  thy  lifted  cruise. 
When  future  ages  see  the  Son  of  Man, 
With  Magdalene  or  Samaritan, 
Magdala,  Sichem,  these  two  will  compete 
To  bring  its  woman  closest  to  My  feet; 
So  close  allied,  that  this  shall  be  your  glory, 
Blonde  hair  and  brown  shall  mingle  in  the  story. 
The  Priest:   So  be  it!    Thou  art  Christ!    We  trust  Thy  word. 

Then  surely  thou'lt  rebuild  the  temple.  Lord  ? 
Jesus:   No! 

The  Priest:  Rabbi,  Thou  wilt  choose  Thy  priest? 

Jesus:  Not  yet. 

The  Priest:    Surely  a  high  priest? 
Jesus:  No, 

The  Priest:  Ah,  I  forget, 

Thou'lt  keep  that  title? 
Jesus:  No. 

The  Priest:  Change  Thy  robe  of  white 

For  purple,  scarlet,  gold  and  all  delight? 
Jesus:    No. 

The  Priest:    In  Ophir's  mines  already  slaves  must  delve 
For  Thy  twelve  jewels? 
{He  points   to   his   breast.) 
Jesus  :  Nay,  I  have  my  Twelve. 

A  Young  Man:   What  temple  shall  we  choose  Him?    'Tis  his 

due! 
Photine:    The  flowery  slope,  the  mountain's  changing  blue! 
Another:   What  throne  for  Him  of  Whom  the  prophets  wrote? 
Photine:   The  well's  rough  rim;  a  little,  rocking  boat. 
The  Priest:    What,  then,  is  worship? 
Jesus:  'Tis  to  do  God's  will! 

Priest:    But  one  must  pray. 


206  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Jesus  :  A  little,    .    .    .    low  and  still. 

Be  not  like  those  who,  standing  on  the  street, 
Say  the  long  prayers  they  endlessly  repeat, 
Prayer's  not  a  grindstone ;  'tis  the  song  of  birds ! 
My  Father  hears  the  spirit,  not  the  words. 
They  who  repeat  the  rhythms  of  the  schools 
Are  like  to  riders  drowsing  on  their  mules. 
Short,  trusting  prayer  a  better  faith  had  proved. 
Not  like  a  beggar,  but  a  child  beloved. 
The  best  prayer  is  in  secret,  day  by  daj'. 
Pray  ye  as  I  have  taught  Photine  to  pray. 

{As  He  speaks.  He  lays  His  hatid  very  gently  upon 
Photine's  shoulder,  jnaking  her  kneel.) 
Pray  wheresoe'er  ye  are, — in  Galilee, 
Samaria,  or  lands  beyond  the  sea; 
Not  beating  on  your  breast,  with  garments  torn, — 
Lifting  a  cheerful  face,  not  one  forlorn. 
Jehovah  listens  not  alone  to  them 
Who  on  Gerizim,  at  Jerusalem, 
Call  upon  Him  Who  dwelleth  everywhere. 

Photine:   With  closed  eyes,  softly,  then  begin  your  prayer, 
Wherever  and  whenever  is  your  need, 
Feeling  yourself  God's  child  in  very  deed. 
'Tather  in  heaven,  hallowed  be  Thy  name; 
Thy  kingdom  come,  Thy  will  be  done,  the  same 
On  this  Thy  earth  as  that,  Thy  heaven.     Give 
The  daily  bread  whereby  Thy  children  live. 
Forgive  our  many  trespasses,  as  we 
Forgive  each  other.     From  temptations  free 
Thy  children,  kept  from  evil.     Take  Thou  then 
Thy  kingdom,  power  and  glory." 

The  Crowd:  Yea,  amen. 

(  Curtain  ) 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC 

Heroic  Comedy  in  Five  Acts 
In  Verse 


//  is  to  the  soul  of  Cyrano  that  I  wished  to 
dedicate  this  poem.  But  since  it  has  entered 
into  you,  Coquelin,  it  is  to  you  that  1  dedi- 
cate it. 

E.  R. 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC 


LIST  OF  CHARACTERS 

Cyrano  of  Bergerac.  -^ 

Christian  of  Neuvillette.  ' 

Count  of  Guiche, 

Ragueneau,' 

Le  Bret.  ' 

Captain  Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux. 

The  Cadets. 

LiGNIERE. 

Valvert. 
A  Marquis. 
Second  Marquis. 
Third  Marquis, 
montfleury. 
Bellerose. 

JODELET. 
CUIGY. 

Brissaille. 

A  Churl,' 

A  Musketeer, 

Another  Musketeer. 

A  Spanish  Officer, 

A  Lighthorseman. 

The  Porter. 

A  Citizen. 

His  Son. 

A  Cut-Purse, 


A  Spectator. 

A  Guard. 

Bertrandou  the  Fifer. 

A  Capuchin. 

Two  Musicians. 

The  Poets. 

The  Pastry  Cooks. 

ROXANE.  " 

Sister  Martha. 

LiSE. 

The  Vender  of  Light  Wines. 

Mother  Margaret  of  Jesus. 

The  Duenna. 

Sister  Claire. 

An  Actress. 

Second  Actress. 

The  Pages. 

The  Waitress. 

The  Crowd,  Plain  Citizens,  Marquises,  Musketeers,  Pick-pockets, 
Pastry  Cooks,  Poets,  Cadets  of  Gascony,  the  Cardinal,  the 
AcadeTnicians,  Comedians,  Violins,  Pages,  Children,  Spanish 
Soldiers,  Spectators,  Euphuists,  Nuns,  etc. 

(First  four  acts  in  1640,  the  fifth  in  1655.) 


ACT  I 
A  Play  at  the  Hotel  of  Burgundy 

The  hall  of  the  Hotel  of  Burgundy  in  1640.  A  sort  of  tennis 
court  arranged  and  decorated  for  theatrical  productions. 

The  hall  is  an  oblong;  it  is  seen  obliquely,  in  such  a  way  that 
one  side  of  it  makes  the  background,  which  begins  at  the  front  wing 
on  the  right  and  runs  to  the  rear  luing  on  the  left,  making  an 
angle  with  the  stage  which  is  seen  cantwise. 

The  stage  is  encumbered  on  both  sides  with  benches  placed 
along  the  wings.  The  curtain  is  made  of  two  lengths  of  tapestry 
which  can  be  draivn  apart.  Above  a  harlequin  s  mask,  the  royal 
arms.  Broad  steps  lead  from  the  stage  to  the  hall  floor.  0?i 
cither  side  of  these  steps  is  a  place  for  the  musicians.  A  row  of 
candles.  There  are  two  ranks  of  side  galleries;  the  upper  tier 
is  divided  into  boxes. 

There  are  no  seats  in  the  pit,  which  is  the  real  stage  of  this 
play;  but  at  he  back  of  the  pit  on  the  right  some  benches  are 
ranged  and  uttdcr  a  siaij'way  which  leads  to  the  better  seats, — a 
stairway  of  which  only  the  lower  steps  can  be  seen,  there  is  a  sort  of 
refreshment  booth,  decorated  with  little  tapers,  vases  of  floivers, 
glasses  of  crystal,  plates  of  cakes,  flagons,  etc. 

At  the  back,  under  the  gallery,  is  the  entrance.  A  great  door  is 
partly  opened  to  admit  the  spectators.  On  a  panel  of  this  door,  as 
well  as  in  various  corners  and  above  the  refreshment  stand,  are  red 
placards,  on  ivhich  one  may  read,  CLORISE.  As  the  curtain 
rises,  the  hall  is  in  semi-darkness,  and  quite  empty.  The  lustres 
are  lowered  to  the  middle  of  the  pit,  ready  to  be  lighted. 

213 


214  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

SCENE  I 
The  Public,  arriving  a  few  at  a  time.     Cavaliers,  Lackeys,  Pages, 
Cut-Purses,  the  Porter,  etc.     Later  the  Marquises,  Cuigy, 
Brissaille,  the  Serving  Maid,  the  Musicians,  etc. 
{One  hears,   behind  the  door,  a  tumult   of  voices;   then  a 
trooper  enters,  abruptly.) 
The  Porter  {pursuing  him) :    Hola.     Your  fifteen  pence. 
The  Trooper:  I  enter  gratis. 

The  Porter:  Why? 

The  Trooper:   I'm  of  the  King's  Horse, — of  the  Household,  I. 
The  Porter  {to  another  who  comes  in) :  You? 
Second  Trooper:  I  don't  pay. 

The  Porter:  But  .  .  . 

Second  Trooper:  I'm  a  musketeer. 

First  Trooper   {to  second)  :    They  don't  begin  till  two.     The 
pit  is  clear. 
Let's  have  a  bout  at  fencing. 
A  Lackey  {coming  in):         Flanquin,   .    .    .  hey! 
Another   {already  arrived)  :    Wine? 
First  {disclosing  a  pack  of  cards,  hidden  in  his  doublet)  : 

Cards,  dice. 
{He  scats  himself  on  the  floor.)     Yes,  my  bully  boy. 
Second  Lackey  {same  play)  :  Let's  play. 

First  Lackey  {feels  in  his  pocket  for  a  candle  end,  which  he 
lights  and  sets  on  the  floor)  : 
I  like  a  light,  and  so  I  filched  this  bit. 
A  Guard  {to  a  flower  girl  zvho  comes  in)  : 

How  sweet,  to  come  before  the  lamps  are  lit. 
One  of  the  Fencers:  Touch! 
One  of  the  Gamblers:        Clubs! 
The  Guard  {pursuing  the  girl) :      A  kiss! 
The  Flower  Girl  {freeing  herself)  :  They'll  see! 
The  Guard:  Oh,  never  fear. 

A  Man.  {seating  himself  on  the  ground,  icith  others  who  have 
brought  provisions)  :  When  one  comes  early,  one  has  com- 
fort here. 


20  BE  IT!  Ckl (TIB! 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  215 

A  Citizen  {directing  his  son)  :   Let  us  sit  here. 
A  Player:  Aces! 

A  Man  {who  takes  a  bottle  from  under  his  coat,  as  he  sits  down)  : 

1  droughtily 

Drink  burgundy  at  the  Hotel  of  Burgundy. 

{He  drinks.) 
Citizen  {to  his  son)  :  A  man  might  take  this  for  a  wicked  place. 

{He  points  to  the  drunkard  with  the  tip  of  his  ivalking  stick.) 

Sots! 

{One  of  the  fencers  jostles  him  as  he  lunges.) 

Brawlers! 

{FJe  sprawls  into  the  group  of  card-players.)     Gamblers! 
The  Guard  {behind  him,  still  coaxing  the  flower  girl)  : 

Kiss  me! 
Citizen  {hastily  dragging  his  son  aivay)  :    God  of  grace! 

And  in  a  hall  like  this,  where  brigands  gather, 

They  played  Rotrou,  my  son. 
The  Young  Man:  And  Corneille,  Father. 

A  Group  of  Pages  {holding  hands  enter  singing  a  roundelay)  : 

Tra  la  la  la  la  la  la  la  la  lere. 
The  Porter  {severely)  :    No  nonsense,  pages. 
First  Page  {with  wounded  dignity)  :    Sir,  we  have  some  pride. 

{Whispers,  as  the  porter  turns  his  back.)     Have  you  a  string? 
Second  Page  :  Yes,  and  a  hook,  beside. 

First  Page   {giggling)  :    Let's  fish  for  wigs.     I  know  a  likely 

station. 
A  Cut-Purse    {grouping  around  him  several  evil  looking  fel- 
lows) :   Come,  pay  attention  to  your  education : 

Your  first  attempt  to  steal  from  folk  like  these. 
Second  Page   {calling  cautiously  to  other  pages  already  in  the 

upper  gallery)  :    Have  you  a  blow  gun? 
Third  Page  {from  the  gallery)  :   Aye,  and  lots  of  peas. 

{He  shoots  the  pea-shooter  in  proof.) 
Young  Man  {to  his  father)  :   What  will  they  play? 
Citizen  :  Clorise. 

Young  Man:  Who  is  it  by? 


216  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Citizen  :  Balthazar  Baro.    That's  a  piece,  say  I  .  .  . 

{They  go  up.) 
The  Cut-Purse  {to  his  acolytes)  : 

Cut  all  knee  ruffles  close.     Don't  spoil  the  lace.- 
A  Spectator  (to  his  coTnpanion,  pointing  to  a  high  corner  seat)  : 

I  saw  The  Cid  first  played  from  just  that  place. 
The  Cut-Purse  {making  swift  play  with  his  fingers)  : 

Watches.    .    .    . 
Old  Citizen    {coming  back  with   his  son)  :    You'll   see   great 

actors. 
The  Cut-Purse  {with  little,  furtive  movements  of  his  hands)  : 

He  Avho  handles 

Handkerchiefs  deft  .   .   . 
Old  Citizen:  Montfleury,  .   .   . 

Somebody  {calling  from  the  gallery)  :   Light  the  candles! 
Old  Citizen  :    Bellerose,  I'Epy,  Jodelet,  men  of  that  ilk. 
A  Page  {from  the  pit)  :   Here  is  the  waitress. 
Waitress   {appearing  behind  the  refreshment  booth)  : 

Oranges!  New  milk! 

Shrub!     Cedar  bitters! 

{A  noise  at  the  door.) 
A  Falsetto  Voice:    Rascals,  knaves,  give  place. 
A  Lackey  {astonished)  :    Marquises   ...   in  the  pit? 
Another  Lackey:  A  moment's  space. 

{Enter  a  party  of  fashionable  lordlings.) 
A  Marquis  {seeing  the  place  half  empty)  : 

What's  this?     Arriving  with  the  linen  drapers? 

Step  on  no  toes?     It  gives  a  man  the  vapors; 

Lud  me!      {He  confronts  other  new  arrivals.) 
Cuigy;  Brissaille! 

{Effusive  greetings.) 
Cuigy:    True  friends, — to  face  this  scandal, — 

Arrived  with  us  before  they  light  a  candle. 
The  Marquis:    I  am  in  a  plaguey  humor.     Shadows!     Glooms! 
Another:    Console  yourself.     The  candle  lighter  comes. 
The  Hall  {greeting  the  candle  lighter):    Ah!    .    .    . 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  217 

{They  crowd  around  the  lustres  as  he  lights  therii.  Some 
people  have  taken  seals  in  the  galleries.  LiGNlHRE  enters 
the  pit,  arm  in  arm  ivith  CHRISTIAN  OF  NeuVILLETTE. 
LiGNlERE,  his  dress  a  little  disordered,  looks  distinguished, 
but  dissipated  and  self-indulgent.  CHRISTIAN,  dressed 
elegantly,  but  a  little  unfashionably,  seems  preoccupied;  his 
attention  is  fixed  on  the  boxes,  which  he  scans  carefully.) 

SCENE    II 
The  Same.     Christian,   Ligniere;  later,  Ragueneau 

and  Le  Bret 
Cuigy:    Ligniere! 

Brissaille  (laughing)  :    Not  fuddled  yet? 
Ligniere  (aside  to  Christian)  :    I  may,  you  said?  .    .    . 
(Christian  nods  assent.)  Baron  of  Neuvillette 

(Bows  acknowledgments.) 
The  Hall  (acclaiming  the  drawing  up  of  the  first  lighted  chan- 
delier) :   Ah !    .    .    . 
Cuigy  (to  Brissaille,  looking  at  Christian)  :  A  charming  head. 
First  Marquis  (who  has  heard)  :  Peuh! 
Ligniere    (presenting  to  Christian):    My  lords  of  Cuig>',  of 

Brissaille. 
Christian  (boning):  Enchanted! 

First  Marquis  (to  Second):    Handsomr enough, — but  fashion 
somewhat  scanted. 

Not  the  last  word.  ; 

Ligniere  (to  Cuigy)  :   Touraine,  his  native  place. 
Christian  :    I  have  hardly  been  in  Paris  twenty  days. 

I  join  the  guards  to-morrow  as   .    .    . 
First  Marquis  (giving  his  attention  to  the  people  who  are  com- 
ing into  the  boxes)  :  See  there, — 
The  wife  of  the  Justice   .    .    . 
The  Waitress:                            Oranges!    Milk! 
The  Violins  (tuning)  :  La  lere. 
Cuigy  (to  Christian,  indicating  the  rapidly  filling  room)  : 
A  rout. 


218  PLJYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Christian:   A  goodly  crowd. 

First  Marquis  :  The  world  entire. 

(They  name  the  ladies  as  they  enter  their  boxes,  dressed  in 
the  height  of  the  fashion.     There  are  greetings,  smiles  and 
bows.) 
Second  AIarquis:  Guemenee  .  .  . 
Cuigy:  Bois-Dauphin  .   .  . 

First  Marquis:  Whom  all  admire. 

Brissaille:   Chavigny  .  .  . 

Second  Marquis:  Toys  with  all  hearts,— the  elf. 

Ligniere:  Hola,— from  Rouen,  here's  Corneille  himself. 
The  Young  Man  {to  his  father)  :  The  Academy  is  here? 
Citizen:  More  than  one  member; 

Boudu,  Boissat,  and  Cureau  of  the  Chamber, 
Porcheres,  Colomby,  Bourdon  and  Arbaud, — 
All  those  immortals  almost  in  a  row. 
First  Marquis:    Attention!   Look!   Our  Euphuists  take  their 
place, — 
Barthenoide,  Felixerie,  Cassandace. 
Second  Marquis:  Ah,  how  melodiously  the  surnames  fall! 

You  know  them  all,  Marquis? 
First  Marquis:  Marquis,  I  know  them  all! 

Ligniere  {taking  Christian  aside)  :    My  boy,  I  came  to  render 
you  a  favor 
The  lady  lacks.     So  I  will  seek  the  savor 
Of  my  old  vice. 
—    Christian  {appealing):    Not  yet!     Ah,  stay,  to  prove,— 
^ — ■        You  know  the  town, — for  whom  I  die  of  love. 

First  Violin  {rapping  on  his  rack  with  his  bow) :  Violins,  all. 

{He  lifts  his  bow.) 
Waitress:  Citrons!    Macaroons! 

Christian:  Stay  yet! 

She  may  be  a  fine  lady;  a  coquette, — 
I  dare  not  speak,     I  am  not  quick, — not  bright;   ; 
I  get  confused  when  smart  folk  talk  or  write. 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  219 

I'm  just  a  timid  soldier, — that  is  all. 

She  sits  there  always, — 30nder  empty  stall. 
LiGNlERE  {trying  to  break  away)  :    I'm  going. 
Christian  {restraining  him)  :    O,  prithee,  stay. 
LiGNiii'RE  {laughing  but  determined)  :    O,  you  be  cursed. 

Assoucy  waits  me.     Here,  one  dies  of  thirst. 
The  Waitress  {passing  with  her  tray)  :    Orangeade! 
LiGNiiiRE:  Fie! 

Waitress:  Milk! 

LiGNiiiRE:  Pou-ee! 

Waitress  ;  Rivesalte ! 

LiGNiiiRE:  Halt! 

(To  Christian.)     I'll  stay  a  little.    See  you  this  rivesalte? 

{He  sits  down  near  the  serving  stand.     The  waitress  pours 
the  rivesalte  for  him.) 
Cries   {as  the  audience  recognizes  a  beaming,  fat  little  man  who 

enters):  Ah,  Ragueneau! 
LiGNiERE  {to  Christian)  :    The  famous  bake-shop  master,  Ra- 
gueneau. 
Ragueneau  {dressed  like  a  pastry  cook  in  his  Sunday-best,  com- 
ing hurriedly  up  to  Ligniere)  : 

Sir,  have  you  seen  our  master  Cyrano? 
LiGNiiiRE  {presenting  Ragueneau  to  Christian)  : 

The  pastry  cook  of  playwright  and  of  poet. 
Ragueneau:   You  flatter,  sir. 
Lignie:re:  Maecenas! — all  men  know  it! 

Ragueneau  :  These  gentlemen  do  let  me  serve  their  need. 
Ligniere:  On  credit.    He  is  poet,  too. 
Ragueneau:  Indeed 

They  tell    .    .    . 
LiGNii{RE:  Daft  over  rhymes. 

Ragueneau:  True,  for  an  roundelay  .   .    . 

Ligniere:  You'd  give  a  tart. 

Ragueneau:  Oh,  a  plain  tartlet,  say! 

Ligniere:    Good  soul,  he  makes  excuses.     On  my  soul, 

For  a  triolet,  he  gives  .    .    . 


220  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Ragueneau  {apologetically)  :  A  roll   .    .    . 
LiGNiERE  {severely)  :  Milk  roll. 

You  love  the  theatre? 
Ragueneau  :  I  idolize  it. 

Ligniere:  You  pay  your  way, — ^Ah,  I  shall  advertise  it, — 

With  pastry  always.    Tell  us  .  .  .  what  was  mustered 

For  to-day's  entrance? 
Raguexeau:  Fifteen  puffs,  with  custard. 

My  lord  Cyrano  lacks.     I  am  surprised. 
Ligniere:   But  why? 
Ragueneau  :  Montfleury  plays. 

Ligniere:  I  am  advised 

That  tun  plaj's  Phedon  for  us.    Even  so, 

What's  that  to  Cyrano? 
Ragueneau:  You  did  not  know? 

He  hates  Montfleury,  sir,  and  doth  engage 

To  keep  him  for  four  weeks  from  any  stage. 
Ligniere  {who  is  drinking  his  fourth  little  glass  of  rivesalte)  : 

Ah,  well?   .    .    . 
Ragueneau  :  Montfleury  plays. 

CuiGY  {coining  up  with  his  party)  :   He  can't  help  that. 
Ragueneau:  Oh,  oh, 

I've  come  to  see. 
Christian:  Who  is  this  Cyrano? 

Cuigy:    When  't  comes  to  fencing,  he  knows  all  the  cards. 
Second  Marquis:   Noble? 
Cuigy:    Enough   .    .    .   commission  in  the  Guards. 

{He  indicates  a  gentleman  ivho   enters  the  hall,  apparently 
looking  for  someone.)     His  friend,  Le  Bret,  can  tell  you. 

{He  calls.)      LeBret! 

(Le  Bret  comes  toivard  them.)     One  sees 

You  seek, — is  it  for  Bergerac? 
Le  Bret:  Yes;  I  am  not  at  ease. 

Cuigy:   Am  I  not  right, — he's  not  like  everyone? 
Le  Bret  {tenderly)  :   The  rarest,  finest  spirit  'neath  the  sun. 
Ragueneau:   Rhymer  .    .    . 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  221 

Cuigy:  And  duellist  .  .   . 

Brissaille:  Physicist  .    .    . 

Le  Bret:  Musician. 

Ligniere:    What  visage  hetroclitical  is  his'n. 

Ragueneau:    Certes,  I  think  grave  Philip  of  Champaigne 

Could  never  limn  for  us  his  portrait  plain. 

Extravagant,  eccentric,  sensitive,  droll, 

The  great  Jacque  Callot,  calling  all  the  roll 

Of  his  mad  fighters,  could  not  rival  him. 

Broad  hat  witli  triple  plume ;  doublet  a-trim, 

Six-pointed;  cape  uplifted  by  his  sword, — 

Cocked  like  a  rooster's  tail  upon  my  w^ord, — 

Prouder,  i'  faith,  than  any  Artaban 

Of  Gascony  since  Gascony  began. 

His  Punch's  ruff  surmounting,  wondrous,  shows 

A  nose.     O,  sirs,  what  nose  is  that  there  nose! 

One  can't  see  such  a  nose  in  any  station, 

Not  crying,  "No,  that's  pure  exaggeration." 

One  thinks,  "He'll  dol¥  it.     'Tis  a  thing  to  doi?."— 

My  lord  of  Bergerac  don't  take  it  off. 
Le  Bret  (shaking  his  head)  :   He  wears, — and  who  remarks  it, 

dares  his  hate. 
Ragueneau  (proudly)  :    His  rapier  looks  like  half  the  shears  of 

Fate. 
First  Marquis  (shrugging  his  shoulders) :    He  will  not  come. 
Ragueneau:  Yes  ...  I  will  bet  a  hen 

Roasted  by  Ragueneau. 
The  Marquis  (laughing)  :  Done. 

(A  jnurmur  of  admiration  runs  through  the  Hall.     RoXANE 
enters  her  box.     She  sits  dozen  at  the  front,  her  chaperone 
takes  the  seat  in  the  back  of  the  box.     Christian,  occu- 
pied with  paying  the  ivaitress,  doesn't  see  her.) 
Second  Marquis  (with  little  affected  cries)  :   Gentlemen! 

She's  dreadfully  delicious. 
First  Marquis  :  Like  a  peach 

That  smiles  upon  a  cherry. 


222  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Second  Marquis:  She  can  reach, — 

She  is  so  fresh, — all  hearts, — give  each  a  cold. 
i^Christian  (raising  his  head,  sees  RoxANE  and  grips  Ligniere's 
//        arms  excitedly)  :    'Tis  she. 
LiGNlERE    {sipping  his  rivesalte)  :    She,   is  it? 
Christian:  Yes.     Speak  quick.     I  am  overbold  .    .    . 

Ligniere:     Magdeleine  Robin,  whom  they  style  Roxane, 

Euphuist,  .    .   . 
Christian  :   Alas ! 
Ligniere:  Orphan,  unmarried, — cousin  to  the  man 

Of  whom  we  spoke,  Cyrano. 

{At  this  7noment  a  very  elegant  nobleman,  wearing  the  order 
of  the  Holy  Ghost  on  his  breast,  enters  the  box  and,  stand- 
ing, chats  a  moment  with  RoXANE.) 
Christian  {trembling):   Who  is  that? 
Ligniere   {who  is  getting  decidedly  drunk,  winking):    Tee-hee! 

The  Count  of  Guiche,  but  married,  do  you  see, 

To  the  niece  of  Richelieu.     His  heart's  desire 

Is  to  wed  Roxane  to  a  gloomy  squire, — 

My  Lord  of  Valvert, — viconte, — feeble  stuff. 

It  irks  her,  yet  this  Guiche  has  power  enough 

To  persecute  a  simple  citizen, 

I  watched  his  sly  manoeuvering, — and  then, 

I  put  it  in  a  ballad, — Oh,  my  eye, 

It's  naughty! — Lemme  shing  it. 

{He  rises,  staggering,  glass  lifted,  ready  to  sing.) 
Christian  :  No.    Good-bye. 

Ligniere:   Going? 
Christian  :   To  seek  this  Valvert. 
Ligniere:  Have  a  care. 

He'll  kill  you.   .    .    .   Stay.     Somebody's  looking.     There. 

{He  just  indicates  RoXANE.) 
Christian:    It  is  true. 

{He  stands,  gazing.      The  group  of  cut-purses,  seeing  him 
stand,  head  lifted,  lips  parted,  draw  closer.) 
LiGNiiiRE:   'Tis  I  who  go.     I'm  thirsty.    Frien's 'II  get 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  223 

Tired,  waitin'  round   in  taverns.   .    .    . 

{lie  goes  out,  staggering.) 
Le   Bret    {ivho   has  made  the  rounds   of  the  hall,   returning   to 

Ragueneau,  and  speaking  cheerfully)  :    No  Cyrano, 
Ragueneau   (incredulous)  :  And  yet   .    .    . 

Le  Bret:    I  almost  hope  he  hasn't  seen  the  board. 
The  Hall:   Begin!    Begin! 

SCENE  III 

The  Same,  without  Ligniere;   The  Count  of  Guiche; 
Valvert;  later,  Montfleury 

A  Marquis  (seeing  the  Count  of  Guiche,  who  leaves  Rox- 
ane's  box  and  crosses  the  pit,  surrounded  by  obsequious 
noblemen,  among  whom  is  the  Viscount  of  Valvert)  : 

He  has  his  court,  my  word! 
Another:   Ff  .   .   .  Still  a  Gascon. 
First  Marquis:  But  adroit,  and  cold, — 

That  kind  succeeds.     Come,  let  us  join  the  fold. 
(They  go  toward  the  Count  of  Guiche.) 
Second  Marquis  :  My  Lord,  your  ribbons  make  a  goodly  show, — 

Is  the  shade  "Kiss-me-love,"  or  "flank-of-doe"? 
Guiche:    The  shade  is  called  "Dying-Spaniard." 
First  Marquis:  Good.    The  shade 

Lies  not, — because,  sir,  with  your  doughty  aid 
We  drive  the  foe  in  Flanders, 
Guiche:  I  am  ready 

To  mount  the  stage.     Coming? 

(He  goes  toward  the  stage,  folloived  by  the  marquises  and 
other  noblemen.     He  turns  and  calls)  :    Valvert! 
Christian   (who  has  heard  and  watched  the  party,  trembles  at 
hearing  that  name)  :  Valvert,  said  he? 

Oh,  in  his  face  I'll  hurl    .    .    . 

(He  puts  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  meets  the  hand  of  a  cut- 
purse,  in  the  act  of  robbing  him.) 

What's  this?     I  planned 
To  pluck  my  glove  out  .    .    . 


224  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  Cut-Purse   {ruefully)  :    And  you  plucked  a  hand. 

{In  a  different  tone  and  speaking  quick  and  low.) 

Loose  me, — I'll  tell  a  secret. 
Christian   {still  holding  him)  :   What? 
The  Cut-Purse:  Ligniere, 

Who  left  you   .    .    . 
Christian  :  Eh  ? 

Cut-Purse  :  Best  patter  his  last  prayer. 

He  made  a  song,  touching  great  folk.     He  blundered. 

A  hundred  men, — I'm  one — will  lie  in  wait   .    .    . 
Christian:  A  hundred? 

Who  plots  this  thing? 
The  Cut-Purse:    Sir,  one  must  use  discretion. 
Christian  {shrugging  his  shoulders)  :  Oh!    .    .    . 
The  Cut-Purse  {with  dignity)  :  One  has  the  ethics,  sir,  of  one's 

profession. 
Christian:  Where  do  they  lurk? 
Cut-Purse:  Nesle  Gate;  dark  as  a  cavern. 

Best  warn  him,  sir. 
Christian  {loosing  his  hold  of  the  fellow's  wrist) : 

Where  find  him? 
The  Cut-Purse:  Why,  at  any  tavern. 

Gold  Wine-Press,  Fir-Cone,  Bursting-Belt,  Two-Links. 

Leave  warning  in  them  all.     In  all,  he  drinks. 

A  written  word  would  be  the  safest  plan. 
Christian:    I  go.     The  knaves!     A  hundred,  'gainst  one  man! 

{He  looks  longingly  at  RoxANE.)      To  leave  her,  .   .    .  her! 

{Furiously,  looking  at  Valvert.)  And  him.  But  I  must 
save 

Ligniere. 

{He  goes  out,  running.  The  Count  of  Guiche,  the  vis- 
count, the  marquises  and  all  the  fashionable  gentlemen 
have  disappeared  behind  the  curtain  of  the  stage,  to  take 
their  places  on  the  benches  ranged  along  the  wings.  The 
pit  is  completely  filled.  Not  an  empty  place  in  stalls  or 
galleries. ) 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  225 

The  Hall:  Begin! 

A  Citizen   (whose  wig  is  suddenly  lifted  on  a  hook  from  a  line 

thrown  by  one  of  the  pages  in  the  gallery):    My  wig! 
Cries  of  Mirth:  A  rather  sudden  shave. 

Bravo!     Ha-ha-ha! 
The  Citizen  {raging  and  shaking  his  fist)  :   Theft!  Rapine! 

Violence ! 
(Laughter  and  shouting,  which  begins  noisily  and  then  dies 

azvay.)      Ha-ha,  ha-ha,  ha-ha! 
(Silence.) 
Le  Bret  (mystified)  :  This  sudden  silence? 

(A  spectator  whispers  something  in  his  ear)  :    Ah? 
The  Spectator  (importantly)  :    I  have  it  on  the  best  authority. 
(Whispers  run  through  the  hall)  : 
No.     Yes.     Box  with  the  grill.     Yes — no — 'tis  he. 
The  Cardinal!    Cardinal?    The  Cardinal! 
A  Page  :  The  devil, — now  we'll  have  no  fun  at  all ! 

(A  rap  upon  the  stage.     Everybody  is  quiet.) 
Voice  of  a  Marquis   (in  the  stillness,  behind  the  curtain)  : 

Snuff  that  candle. 
Another  (poking  his  head  between  the  curtain  folds)  : 

Fetch  a  chair. 
(A  chair  is  handed  from  hand  to  hand  above  the  heads  of  the 
audience.      The  marquis  takes  it  and  his  head  disappears, 
not  before  he  has  thrown  a  few  kisses  toward  the  boxes.) 
A  Spectator   (testily):  Silence.     Si-lence! 

(The  three  strokes  are  heard.  The  curtains  are  drawn  apart. 
The  marquises  are  sitting  along  the  sides  of  the  stage  in 
studied  poses.  The  setting  shows  a  pastoral  scene  in  soft 
tones  of  blue.  Four  little  crystal  lustres  light  the  scene. 
The  violins  play  softly.) 
Le  Bret  (whispering  to  Ragueneau)  :  Montfleury  enters? 
Ragueneau   (low)  :  Yes;  he  will  commence. 

Le  Bret:  Cyrano  is  not  here. 
Ragueneau:  I  lose,  you  see! 


226  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Le  Bret  :   So  much  the  better ! 

(Sound  of  shepherds'  pipes.      Montfleury  appears,   enor- 
mous, in  a  shepherd's  costume,  a  choplet  of  roses  tipped 
over  one  ear,  and  bloiving  be-ribboned  pipes.) 
The  Pit  {applauding):    Montfleury!     Montfleury! 
IVIoNTFLEURY :   How  happy  he  who  lives  out  all  his  days 

Far  from  the  court, — akin  to  Nature's  ways, 

JVho  hears  the  voice  of  Zephyr  when  she  speaks. 
A  Voice  {from  the  middle  of  the  pit)  : 

Knave,  you  were  interdicted  for  four  weeks, 

{Stupefaction.     Everybody   turns.     Murmurs.) 
Divers  Voices:    Hey?    What?    What's  that? 
Cuigy:    'Tis  he. 
Le  Bret  {terrified):    Cyrano! 
The  Voice:  King  of  clowns,  I  tell 

You,   leave   the   stage. 
All  THE  Hall  {indignant)  :  Oh! 
Montfleury:   But  .    .    .   but  .    .    . 
The  Voice:  You  rebel? 

Divers  Voices  {from  pit  and  stalls)  :     '*'^'' 

Tut  tut!     Montfleury,  play!     You  have  no  need 

To  be  afraid! 
Montfleury  {in  a  voice  that  lacks  conviction) : 

How  happy  he  who  lives  out  all  .   .   . 
The  Voice  {more  menacing)  :  .      Indeed? 

Do  you  desire,  in  face  of  these  beholders. 

To  feel  my  stick  about  your  padded  shoulders? 

{A  cane  upheld  by  a  long  arm  waves  above  the  heads  in  the 
pit.) 
Montfleury  {in  a  voice  that  grows  ever  feebler): 

How  hap  .   .    . 
The  Voice:  Begone! 

The  Pit:  Oh! 

Montfleury  {choking)  :  Lives  out,  unafraid  .  .  . 
Cyrano    {rising  from   the  pit,  stands  on   his  chair,   erect,  arms 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  227 

folded,  plumed   hat   in   battle  array,    moustache   bristling, 
nose  terrible)  : 

I  shall  be  angry  soon. 
{Sensation  when  the  hall  sees  him.) 

SCENE  IV 
The  Same.     Cyrano;  later,  Bellerose,  Jodelet 
MoNTFLEURY  (/o  the  marquises)  :    Sirs,  to  nij'  aid! 

Good  sirs!    .    .    . 
A  Marquis  (coolly)  :   Go  on  and  play. 
Cyrano:  Begone!    You  pause? 

Fat  friend,  I  may  be  forced  to  box  your  jawS. 
Marquises:   Enough! 
Cyrano:  If  any  Marquis  speak  again, 

His  ribbon  shall  be  fluttered  by  my  cane. 
All  the  Marquises  (rising)  :  This  is  too  much!     Montfleury! 
Cyrano  :  Montfleury  goes, — 

Lest  I  cut  off  his  ears  and  slash  his  nose. 
A  Voice:    But  .    .    . 
Cyrano:  He  goes  .    .    . 

Another  Voice:  Really  .    .    . 

Cyrano:  He  dares  to  stop? 

(With  a  gesture  as  if  rolling  up  his  sleeves.) 

I'll  set  the  stage,  then,  as  a  cleaver's  shop. 

I'll  carve  this  sausage,  stuffed  in  Italy. 
Montfleury:   You  insult  Thalia,  in  insulting  me. 
Cyrano  (very  politely)  : 

If  the  Muse  knew^  you,  sir, — who  knows  you  not, — 

I  think  you'd  wish  yourself  once  more  forgot. 

Seeing  you  shaped  so  like  an  upturned  bowl. 

She  would  chastise  you  with  her  buskin's  sole. 
The  Pit:    Montfleury!     O,  Montfleury!     Baro's  play! 
Cyrano    (to   those  about  him)  :     Have  pity  on   my  scabbard, 
friends,  T  pray. 

He's  clinging  to  his  mistress,  but  I  fear  .   .   . 

(The  circle  widens.) 


22S  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  Crowd  {recoiling)'.    He!     La! 

Cyrano  {to  Montfleury)  :   Begone! 

The  Crowd  {surging  closer,  angrily) :   Oh!    Oh! 

Cyrano  {turning  quickly)  :    Who  is  that  I  hear? 

{A  fresh  retreat.) 
A  Voice  {in  the  back  of  the  hall,  singing)  : 
Cyrano  of  Bergerac 
Bully  and  tease; 
Though  his  permission  lack, 
We'll  have  Clorise! 
All  the  Hall   {singing)  :    We'll  have  Clorise! 
Cyrano:    Unless  that  song  immediately  is  dumb, 

I'll  slay  you  all. 
A  Citizen:  Aha,  has  Samson  come? 

Cyrano:    To  make  the  test,  lend  me  your  jaw-bone,  friend. 
A  Lady  {from  her  stall)  :    Unheard  of   .    .    . 
A  Gentleman  :  Scandalous  .   .   . 

A  Citizen:  This  thing  must  end. 

A  Page:   A  lovely  time!   .    .    . 
The  Pit:    K  .    .  s  .    .  s!     Montfleury!     Cyrano! 
Cyrano:    Silence! 

The  Pit  {deliriously):    Hew-haw!  buzz-z-z!    S-s-st!    Cocorico! 
Cyrano:  I  bid   .    .    . 
A  Page:  Miauw! 

Cyrano:  I  bid  you  hold  your  tongue. 

I  challenge  all  the  pit,  both  old  and  young. 

I'll  write  the  names  and  take  the  numbers  here. 

Heroes,  approach.     You  see    .    .    .   the  way  is  clear. 

You,  sir?    No?    You?    To  the  first  duellist, 

The  honour  due  to  him  who  heads  a  list. 

All  who  seek  death  have  but  to  speak  the  word. 

{Silence.)     Too  modest,  eh — to  see  a  naked  sword? 

Well,  to  my  task.     A  swelling,  inflammation. 

Infects  the  stage.    .    .    .    Perhaps   .    .    . 

{He  fingers  his  sword.)      ...   an  operation.    .    .    . 
Montfleury:    I   .    .    . 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  229 

Cyrano  {coming  down  off  his  chair,  scats  himself  as  if  he  were 
at  his  own  fireside,  in  the  middle  of  the  circle  that  has 
formed  around  him)  :    I  shall  clap  thrice,  Full  Moon. 

When  I  have  done, 

Eclipse  yourself. 
The  Pit  {amused)  :   Ah,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho! 
Cyrano  {clapping  his  hands)  :  One. 

Montfleury:    I  .    .    . 
A  Voice  {from  the  stalls)  :   Stay! 
The  Pit:    He'll  stay!  ...  He  won't!  .   .   . 
Montfleury:  Woe's  me! 

I  thinic,  sirs,    .    .    . 
Cyrano  :  Two. 

Montfleury:  'Twere  really  wiser  .    .    . 

Cyrano:  Three! 

(Montfleury  disappears  as  if  the  floor  had  opened  and 
swallowed  him.    A  storm  of  laughter,  howls  and  hisses.) 

Ho,  ho !     Coward !     Come  back ! 
Cyrano    {turns  and  crosses  his  arms)  :    If   he  should   dare  re- 
turn  .    .    . 
A  Citizen:   Our  orator! 

(Bellerose  comes  forward  and  bows.) 
The  Boxes:  Bellerose! 

Bellerose  {with  elegance)  :        Sirs,  you  shall  learn  .  .  . 
The  Pit:   No!    Jodclct!    Go  back! 
JoDELET  {comes  forward;  he  speaks  with  a  nasal  drawl)  : 

You  flock  of  sheep  .   .   . 
The  Pit:  Ah,  ha!    Bravo!    Bravo! 
Jodelet:  Aye,  now  you  cheep! 

'   Our  paunchy  actor,  whom  you  love, — Alack, 

Is  driven   .    .    . 
The  Pit:  Coward! 

Jodelet:  Forced  .   .   . 

The  Pit:  Let  him  come  back! 

Voices:    Come  back! 
Some:  No! 


230  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Others  :  Yes ! 

A  Young  Man  (to  Cyrano)  :  It's  all  so  puzzling; 

Why  do  you  hate  Montfleur? 
Cyrano:  Why,    young   gosling? 

I  have  two  reasons.     Either  would  suffice. 

Primo,  an  actor  having  every  vice 

Of  manner,  breathing,  voice.     He  mouths  his  words; 

Heaves  up  on  winches  Avhat  should  fly  like  birds. 

Secundo, — that's  my  secret! 
The  Old  Citizen  (ivith  the  son)  :   Have  you  not  any 

Shame, — to  deprive  us  of  Clorisef 
Cyrano  {turning,  respectfully)  :   Old  jennet, 

Old  Baro's  verses  are  not  worth  a — zero. 

Ruthless,  I  interrupt. 
The  Euphuists  {from  the  stall)  :   Ah,  shame!  Our  Baro! 

My  dear.    .    .    .    Could  any  one   .    .    . 
Cyrano  {turning  his  chair  toiuard  the  boxes,  gallantly)  : 

Ye  radiant  ones. 

Cup-bearers  of  our  dreams, — flowers,  stars,  and  suns, 

Beneath  whose  smiles,  death's  pangs  were  all  forgot, 

Inspire  our  verses  still, — but  judge  them  not! 
Bellerose:   What  of  the  money? 
Cyrano  {turning  his  chair  toward  the  stage)  : 

Bellerose,  I  say, 

That's  the  first  word  of  sense  I've  heard  to-day. 

Tear  not  the  Thespian  robe  to  which  we  clung! 

{lie  stands  up  and  tosses  a  bag  to  the  stage.) 

So  catch  this  as  it  flies,  and  hold  your  tongue. 
The  Hall  (^rtzz/^r/):  Oh!    Ah! 
JoDELET  {catching  it  and  feeling  its  weight)  : 

At  this  rate,  sir,  be  quite  at  ease. 

Come  every  evening  to  forbid  Clorise. 
The  Hall:   Ho!    Ha! 

Jodelet:   Though  none  of  us  should  be  allowed  to  start. 
Bellerose:  Well,  well,  let's  clear  the  hall. 
Jodelet:  Let  all  depart. 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  231 

( The  audience  drifts  away,  Cyrano  watching  contentedly. 
But  the  dispersing  crowd  is  checked  by  the  episode  uhich 
follows,  and  their  departure  is  arrested.  The  ladies  in  the 
stalls,  already  standing  and  putting  on  their  wraps,  stop  to 
listen  and  finally  take  their  seats  again.) 
Le  Bret  {to  Cyrano)  :  What  folly! 

A  Churl    {approaching   Cyrano):    Our  comedian!     What   a 
scandal ! 
He  is  protected  by  the  Duke  of  Candal. 
Have  you  a  patron? 
Cyrano:  No. 

Churl:  You  haven't? 

Cyrano  :  No. 

Churl:    What,  no  great  nobleman  to  shield  you?     So? 
Cyrano   {exasperated)  :    No,  I've  twice  told  you.     You'd  have 
thrice,  no  less? 
Nay, — no  protector.      {Ele  puts  his  hand  on  his  sword) 
But  a  protectress. 
The  Churl:   But  you  will  quit  the  town? 
Cyrano:  That's  as  I  will. 

The  Churl:  The  great  Duke's  arm  is  long. 
Cyrano:  But  longer  still 

Is  mine  when  {he  touches  his  sword) 

I  have  made  it  so  extreme. 
The  Churl:  You  would  not  dream  of  daring  .    .    . 
Cyrano:  I  would  dream. 

The  Churl:  But  .    .    . 
Cyrano:         Turn  on  your  heel  and  march. 
The  Churl:  But   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Turn  your  toes. 

— Or  tell  me  why  you  are  looking  at  my  nose. 
The  Churl  {panic-stricken)  :    I    .    .    . 
Cyrano  {marching  up  to  him)  :    Is  it  amazing? 
The  Churl  {shrinking  back)  :    Your  grace  mistook  my  glance. 
Cyrano:    Is  it  pliant,  wavering, — like  an  elephant's? 
The  Churl  {same) :  N-n-no. 


232  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano  :   Or  like  an  owl's  beak  do  you  see  it  bend  ? 

The  Churl:   But  .    .    . 

Cyrano  :  You  discern  a  wart  upon  its  end  ? 

The  Churl:  Nay  .    .    . 

Cyrano:    Perchance,  a  fly  that  promenades  withal? 

Is't  hetrolitic? 
The  Churl:  Oh!  .    .    . 
Cyrano  :  Phenomenal  ? 

The  Churl:    I  was  so  careful  not  to  look,  God  knows. 
Cyrano:   And  why,  sir,  if  you  please,  not  see  my  nose? 
The  Churl:   I  have  .    .    . 
Cyrano :  Then  it  disgusts  you? 

The  Churl:  Sir  .  .  . 

Cyrano:  In  doubtful  taste 

You  find  its  colour? 
The  Churl:  Sir  .    .    . 

Cyrano:  Its  form  debased? 

The  Churl:  Oh,  not  at  all. 
Cyrano:  Then  what's  the  fault  you  charge? 

You  find  my  nose,  belike,  a  little  large? 
The  Churl  {gibbering)  :    I  find  it  very  little, — small  and  wee. 
Cyrano  :    Hey  ?    What  ?    Accuse  me  of  such  idiocy  ? 

Little?    My  nose?    Hola! 
The  Churl:  'Faith!  .  .  . 

Cyrano:  My  enormous  nose. 

Vile  flat-nose,  flat-head,  man-wlthout-a-nose, 

Learn, — this  appendage  fills  my  heart  with  pride, 

For  in  a  large  nose  always,  is  descried 

A  nature  affable  and  wise  and  good 

Liberal,  courageous.     Be  it  understood, — 

Of  all  the  qualities  you  dare  not  claim, — 

You  filthy  knave,  face  dedicate  to  shame 

That  should  be  grateful  if  I  make  it  smart. 

Equally  void    .    .    .      {He  cuffs  him.) 
The  Churl:  Ouch!   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Of  grace,  of  lyric  art, 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  233 

Of  vividness, — of  all  that  shines  or  glows, 

Of  richness,  glory, — in  a  word  of  Nose — 

{He  whirls  him  about  by  the  shoulders,  fitting  the  action  to 
the  ivord.) 

As  .    .    .  what  my  booted  foot  shall  swiftly  find. 
The  Churl:    Help!     Help!    The  Guard! 
Cyrano:  Let  churls  keep  that  in  mind, 

Who  find  the  middle  of  my  face  a  joke. 

To  noble  jesters, — unlike  meaner  folk, — 

I  give,  e'er  knight  and  knave  escape  together, — 

An  inch  of  steel,  and  not  a  foot  of  leather. 
The  Count  of  Guiche  {coming  down  with  the  marquises)  : 

He  tires  one,  in  the  end. 
Viscount  of  Valvert  {shrugging  his  shoulders)  : 

The  fellow  blusters. 
Guiche:    None  musters  wit  to  answer, 
Valvert:  No  one  musters 

So  much  of  spirit?    Watch  me.     Let's  make  merry. 

{He  goes  toward  Cyrano  and  stares  at  him  with  a  fatuous 
air. ) 

You  have  a  nose  ...  a  nose  ...  a  big  nose. 
Cyrano  {gravely):  Very. 

The  Viscount  {laughing)  :  Hee-hee! 
Cyrano  {imperturbable)  :  Is  that  all? 
The  Viscount:  Well   .    .    . 

Cyrano:  You  are  curtailed,  young  man. 

One  might  say  .    .   .  Oh,  good  Lord,  if  one  began, — 

Varying  the  tone;  come,  let  us  just  suppose, — 

Aggressive:  "Sir,  if  I  had  such  a  nose, 

I'd  cut  it  off,  so  much  'twould  cut  me  up." 

Friendly:    "It  oft  must  plunge,  sir,  in  your  cup; — 

Best  make  a  goblet  of  a  special  shape." 

Descriptive :   "  'Tis  a  rock, — a  cliff, — a  cape. 

A  cape,  quotha?     Surely  a  promontory." 

Curious:  "What  is  that  thing, — let's  have  the  story, — 


234  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

A  tool  box,  or,  perhaps  a  writing  case?" 
Gracious:    "You  must  love  birds  to  have  a  place 
Paternally  prepared, — I  call  it  sweet, — 
To  make  a  safe  perch  for  their  tiny  feet." 
Truculent:   "Sir,  be  careful  when  you  smoke, 
Lest  you  make  trouble  for  all  honest  folk, — 
Lest  neighbors  run  and  cry,  'A  chimney  fire !'  " 
Careful:    "Pray  hold  your  head  a  little  higher, 
Else  such  a  weight  will  surely  make  you  fall." 
Solicitous:   "Sir,  take  a  parasol. 
Lest  its  bright  hue  be  faded  by  the  sun." 
Pedantic:    "Aristophanes  knew  one, — 
H  ippocampelephantecamelos 
Was  made  to  carry,  certes,  such  a  nose." 
Lightly:    "Why,  friend,  a  most  commodious  rack 
To  hang  one's  hat, — where  space  will  never  lack." 
Emphatic:    "Fierce  Euroclydon,  behold, 
Needs  all  his  power  to  give  that  nose  a  cold." 
Dramatic:    " 'Tis  the  Red  Sea  when  it  bleeds." 
Admiring:    "  'Tis  the  sign  the  chemist  needs." 
Lyric:    "A  conche  and  you  a  triton,  say?" 
Simple:    "A  monument.     When's  visiting  day?" 
Respectful:    "Come,  the  landed  gentry  greet. 
Here's  one  who  has  a  gable  on  the  street." 
Rustic:    "Why  look-a-here.     A  nose?     I  tell  'un 
'Tis  a  prize  turnip, — or  a  stunted  melon." 
Soldierly:    "Charge,  heavy  artillery." 
Practical :   "Put  it  in  the  lottery. 
Assuredly  'twould  be,  sir,  the  Grand  Prize." 
Or,  last,  like  Pyramus,  with  streaming  eyes: 
"No  wonder  that  nose  blushes; — wicked  traitor 
Who  mars  his  master,  shaming  his  Creator." 
Here  are  a  few  things,  sir,  you  might  have  said, 
Had  you  or  wit  or  learning.     But  instead. 
You  wretched  fop  who  trifle  with  your  betters, 
You  have  no  spark  of  wit; — and  as  for  letters, 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  235 

You  have  just  four,  to  write  you  down  a  fool. 

Had  you  one  grain,  from  n.iturc  or  from  school, 

Before  these  galleries  30U  might  have  played 

With  some  such  fancies  as  myself  displayed ; — 

— But  not  the  fourth  part  of  them  all  have  spoke, 

Nay,  nor  the  half  of  one, — for  I  may  joke. 

Jest,  as  my  mood  or  mockery  may  nerve  me, — 

But  as  I  serve  myself  let  no  man  serve  me. 
GuiCHE  {seeking  to  lead  the  petrified  viscount  away)  : 

Viscount,  come  away. 
Valvert:  But,  heavens  above. 

This  ruffian   .    .    .   why  ...   he  hasn't  even  a  glove; 

He  has  no  ribbons,    ...   no  rosettes   ...   no  laces. 
Cyrano:    Sir,  it  is  on  my  soul  I  wear  my  graces. 

I'm  not  bedizened  like  a  silly  lad. 

I  go,  less  gaily,  but  more  nobly,  clad. 

I  walk  not  forth  in  garments  carelessly 

Cleaned  of  affronts  or  stains.     There  walks  with  me 

No  conscience  blear-eyed,  blinking  at  the  day, 

No  honour  frayed,  no  scruples  in  decay. 

When  I  go  forth  all  sparkles  in  the  light. 

I  am  beplumed  with  freedom  and  my  right. 

Not  my  pinched  waist  must  make  my  best  appeal. 

It  is  my  soul  that  goes  locked  up  in  steel. 

Exploits  I  wear,  not  ribbons  for  my  part, 

No  curled  moustaches,  but  uplifted  heart. 

One  man  who  walks  among  you  still  prefers 

Music  of  ringing  truth  to  ringing  spurs. 
The  Viscount:    But,  sir  .   .   . 
Cyrano:    I  have  no  gloves?     A  great  affair! 

I  still  have  one,  sir,  of  an  ancient  pair. 

I  found  its  fellow  useful  in  like  case. 

I  threw  it,  for  a  cause,  in  someone's  face. 
The  Viscount:    Braggart  and  rascal!     Flat  foot!     Head  of 
cheese ! 


236  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano  {taking  off  his  hat  and  bowing  low,  as  if  acknowledging 
an  introduction)  : 

Ah?  .   .    .  And  I,  Cyrano  Savien  Hercules 

Of  Bergerac. 
(Laughter.) 
The  Viscount  (exasperated)  :   Buffoon. 

Cyrano   (crying  out  as  if  something  hurt  him):    Ouch!  Ouch! 
The  Viscount  (who  had  turned  and  was  walking  away,  turn- 
ing to  Cyrano)  :   What?  Is  there  more  to  come? 
Cyrano  (ivith  grimaces  of  pain)  : 

I've  got  to  help  her  out.     She  has  grown  numb. 

That  shows  you  it's  a  foolish  thing  to  keep   .    .    . 

Ouch!  .   .   . 
The  Viscount:  What's  amiss? 

Cyrano:  My  sword  has  gone  to  sleep! 

The  Viscount  (draiving  his  own)  :    So  be  it. 
Cyrano:    I've  a  stroke, — a  charming  thing. 
Viscount  (scornfully):  Poet! 
Cyrano:  Yes,  poet,  fencing  as  I  sing. 

While  the  steel  clashes,  I  shall  improvise 

A  ballad. 
The  Viscount:  A  ballad. 
Cyrano  :  You  show  surprise  ? 

You  don't  know  what  that  is? 
Viscount:    But  .    .    . 
Cyrano  (like  a  pedagogue)  :  A  ballad,  know, 

Must  have  three  stanzas  of  eight  lines;  also 

The  rule  requires  an  envoy,  having  four. 
Viscount  (stamping  with  rage)  :  You  ... 
Cyrano:    I'll  make  a  ballad,  fighting  you;  and  more, 

I'll  pink  you  on  the  last  line. 
Viscount:  No. 

Cyrano:  No?    Let's  see;— 

(Declaiming)   The  Ballad  of  the  Battle  of  the  Hotel  Bur- 
gundy,— 

My  Lord  Cyrano  lends  a  braggart  fame. 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  237 

Viscount:   What  do  you  think  that  is? 

Cyrano:  The  ballad's  name. 

The  Hall  {excited  to  the  highest  pitch)  : 

Give  place!  Oh,  most  amusinj^!  .  .  .  Make  a  ring! 
{A  circle  of  curious  onlookers;  marquises  and  officers  min- 
gling with  citizens  and  simple  folk;  pages  climbing  on 
shoulders  to  see  better;  all  the  ladies  standing  in  their  stalls. 
On  the  right,  the  Count  of  Guiche  and  his  followers. 
Left,  Le  Bret,  Ragueneau,  Cuigy,  etc.) 
Cyrano  {closing  his  eyes  for  a  second)  : 

Wait.    ...    I   must  choose  my  rhymes.    .    .    .    The  very 

thing.    .    .    . 
{He  fits  action  to  rhyme  and  rhythm.) 
My  plumed  hat  aside  I  throw; 
Swiftly  my  mantle  is  undone; 
Lightly  I  cast  it  from  me,  so ; 

And  I  unsheath  my  espadon. 
Graceful,  superb,  as  Celadon ; 

Agile  as  Scaramouch,  I  scutch. 
I  warn  you  fairly,  mirmydon. 
At  the  envoy's  end,  I  touch. 

Better  that  unprovoked  I  go. 

Where  were  the  pinking  best  begun? 
The  brave,  slashed  sleeve  above,  .   .  .  below? 

The  heart,  beneath  the  blue  cordon? 
The  merry  music  has  begun. 

A  pretty  volt, — not  overmuch. 
That  drum  it  would  resound  upon. 

There,  at  the  envoy,  I  touch. 

O  for  a  rhyme,  a  rhyme  in  O. 

Your  cheek  is  white.     Its  colours  run. 
My  rhyme,  this  pallor  that  you  show. 

You  thought  to  thrust,  thou  hapless  one? 


238  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

I  parry, — broach, — the  trick  is  done. 

Thy  needle  hold  in  careful  clutch, — 
Thy  basting  needle,  Laridon. 

At  the  envoy's  end,  I  touch, 

(He  announces  solemnly)  : 
Prince,  be  thy  latest  prayer  begun. 

I  shift  in  carte.  .   .   .  My  feint  is  such. 
And  such  my  lunge.    .    .    .    Hola,  'tis  done. 
(The  viscount  reels.     Cyrano  salutes.) 
At  the  envoy's  end,  I  touch. 
(Accla/nation.     Applause    from    the    boxes.     Flowers    and 
handkerchiefs  flutter  down.     Officers  crowd  around  and 
felicitate  Cyrano.     Ragueneau  dances  with  enthusiasm. 
Le  Bret  is  happy,  but  uneasy.     The  friends  of  the  vis- 
count support  him  and  lead  him  away.) 
The  Crowd  (with  a  long  breath)  :   Ah! 
A  Trooper  :   Superb ! 
A  Lady:  Pretty! 

Ragueneau  :  Phenomarvelous ! 

A  Marquis:  New! 

Le  Bret:   Madness! 

{A  throng  about  Cyrano.     One  catches  the  words)  : 

Felicitations!  .   .  .  Bravo!  .   .  .  You 
Are  splendid ! 
A  Woman's  Voice:  A  hero! 

A  Musketeer   {advancing  toward  Cyrano,  his  hand  extended 
eagerly)  :    Sir,  if  you  permit, 
'Twas  well  done.    And  I  know  the  game  a  bit. 
I  never  stamped  so  hard.    It  made  me  cheer. 
{He  goes  off.) 
Cyrano  {to  Cuigy)  :  Who's  that? 
Cuigy:    That?    That's  Artagnan,  the  Musketeer. 
Le  Bret  {to  Cyrano,  taking  his  arm) :   A  talk.   .    .    . 
Cyrano:   Wait  till  the  rabble  leaves.     I  tire  of  this. 
{To  Bellerose)  :   May  I  stay? 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  239 

Bellerose   {respectfully)  :    Yes   ... 

{One  hears  a  tiunult  and  cries  without.) 
JODELET  {looking  out):    Montflcury    .    .    .    whom  they  hiss! 
Bellerose  {solemnly)  :  Sic  transit. 

{Changing  his  tone,  as  he  speaks  to  the  porter,  the  candle- 
snuffer)   Sweep.     Lock  up.     But  leave  the  light. 

There  is  a  new  farce  to  rehearse  to-night. 

Just  long  enough  to  dine  we  toilers  pause. 

(Jodelet  and  Bellerose  go  out,  after  having  bowed  pro- 
foundly to  Cyrano.) 
Porter  {to  Cyrano)  :  You  do  not  dine,  sir? 
Cyrano  :  I  ?     No. 

{The  porter  goes  out.) 
Le  Bret  {to  Cyrano)  :  Why? 

Cyrano  {haughtily)  :  Because  .    .    . 

{Seeing  that  the  porter  is  out  of  hearing.) 

I  have  no  money. 
Le  Bret  {making  a  gesture  of  tossing  something)  : 

What  you  tossed  away? 
Cyrano:   Paternal  pension  perished  in  a  day. 
Le  Bret:    How  will  you  live  this  month?     Ah,  do  arrest  your 

Folly.     Thrown  away!     What  madness! 
Cyrano:  What  a  gesture! 

The  Waitress  {coughing,  behind  her  little  counter)  :  Hum  .  .  . 

(Cyrano  and  Le  Bret  turn.    She  comes  forward  shyly.) 

Sir  ...  to  know  you  fast  ...  it  makes  me  wild.  .   .   . 

{Showing  her  stand.)      Here,  sir,   is  all  you  want.    .    .    . 
Please  .    .    . 
Cyrano:  You  dear  child. 

Although  my  Gascon  pride  forbids  my  taking 

From  your  kind  hands  one  morsel  of  your  making, 

I  fear  lest  I  should  wound  your  generous  heart. 

I  shall  accept,  then   .    .    . 

{He  goes  to  the  booth  and  makes  his  selection.) 

Of  these  grapes,  a  part. 

{She  urges  htm  to  take  the  cluster.     He  takes  a  grape.) 


240  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Just  one.   .    .    .  This  glass  of  water. 
{She  tries  to  pour  ivine  in  the  glass,  he  checks  her.) 

.    .    .   Clear.    And,  willy  nilly, 
Half  of  this  macaroon. 

{She  tries  to  rnake  him  take  a  plate  of  cakes;  he  breaks  one 
in  half  and  puts  part  of  it  back  on  the  plate.) 
Le  Bret:  But  this  is  silly! 

The  Waitress:  Oh,  something  more  ... 
Cyrano:  Yes, — your  kind  hand  to  kiss. 

{He  kisses,  as  if  it  had  been  that  of  a  princess,  the  hand  she 
holds  out  to  him.) 
The  Waitress:  I  thank  you,  sir. 

{She  curtsies.)  Good  night. 

{She  goes  out.) 

SCENE  V 
Cyrano;  Le  Bret;  later,  the  Porter 

Cyrano  :  While  eating  this, 

I'll  hear  thy  scolding. 

{He  sits  down  at  the  booth  and  arranges  before  him  his  maC' 
aroon.)     Dinner. 

{The  glass  of  water.)     Refreshment. 

{The  grape.)  Dessert.     I  shall  dine  .   .   . 

O  Lord,  this  giant  appetite  of  mine. 

Thou  sayst?   .    .    . 
Le  Bret:  I  say,  thou  dost  thy  nature  wrong, 

Being  swayed  by  such  a  swaggering,  braggart  throng. 

If  we  sought  men  of  sense,  they  could  inform  us 

The  true  effect  of  acts  like  this. 
Cyrano  {finishing  his  macaroon)  :   Enormous. 
Le  Bret:  The  Cardinal   .    .    . 
Cyrano  {beaming)  :   The  Cardinal  was  there? 
Le  Bret:   He  must  have  found  .   .   . 

Cyrano:  The  entertainment  fair. 

Le  Bret:    But   .    .    . 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  241 

Cyrano:    He  is  an  author.  'Tis  no  playwright's  way 

To  mind  the  ruin  of  another's  play. 
Le  Bret:  Truly,  thou  mak'st  too  many  enemies. 
Cyrano  {beginning  to  eat  his  grape)  : 

How  many  for  this  evening,  an  it  please? 
Le  Bret:    Forty, — without  the  ladies. 
Cyrano:  Come,  the  count. 

Le  Bret:    Montfleury,  the  old  man,  son,  Guiche,  the  Count, 

Baro,  the  Academy   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Enough  I  am  satisfied. 

Le  Bret:   Where  will  it  lead  at  last,  this  foolish  pride? 

What  is  tliy  aim? 
Cyrano  :  In  labyrinths  I  wandered  ; 

On  diverse  parts  my  divers  gifts  were  squandered. 

I  choose   .    .    . 
Le  Bret:   Eh,  which? 
Cyrano:  This; — Let  what  will  befall 

Always  I  will  be  admirable,  in  all. 
Le  Bret  {shrugging  his  shoulders)  : 

So  be  it.    But,  in  confidence  between  us, 

Why  do  you  hate  Montfleury? 
Cyrano  :  That  Silenus 

Thinks  he's  a  lady-killer.     And  he  tries 

To  cast  carp's  eyes,  with  his  popped  bull-frog's  eyes. 

I  hate  him  since  he  dared  to  let  them  seek 

One  day  .    .    .  one  moment  .    .    .  my  dear  lady's  cheek. 

Methought  I  saw  a  loathly  fat  slug  move 

Upon  a  rose. 
Le  Bret  {stupefied) :   Can  it  be   .    .    . 
Cyrano  {ivith  a  bitter  laugh)  :   That  I  love? 

{Changing  his  tone,  and  gravely.)  I  love. 

Le  Bret:   And  may  thy  friend  know  what  thou  hast  so  hidden? 
Cyrano:    Whom  I  love?     Nay.  .    .    .  Look!  think!     I  am  for- 
bidden 

To  dream  of  love  how  plain  soe'er  she  be, — 

My  nose  arrives  so  long  ahead  of  me. 


242  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Whom  do  I  love  then?     'Tis  in  vain  I  strive, — 

I  love, — even  I, — the  loveliest  maid  alive. 
Le  Bret:  The  loveliest?  .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Quite  simply,  'neath  the  sun. 

Most  brilliant,  finest, 

{With  deep  dejection)  And  the  fairest  one. 
Le  Bret:  Ah,  God,  who  is  this  lady? 
Cyrano:  Mortal  danger, 

Unwitting;  fair;  to  vanity  a  stranger; 

Nature's  own  snare ;  a  moss  rose,  set  apart 

Whence  love  in  ambush  wings  his  deadliest  dart. 

Who  sees  her  smile  has  seen  a  perfect  thing. 

She  gives  a  grace  to  nothing, — everything; 

Divinities  in  her  least  gesture  dwell. 

Not  thou,  O  Venus,  rising  from  thy  shell, 

Nor  thou,  Diana,  in  thy  woodland,  fair 

As  she  in  Paris  in  her  sedan  chair. 
Le  Bret:   Sapristi!     It  is  clear. 
Cyrano:  Transparent  man. 

Le  Bret:   Thy  cousin,  Magdeleine  Robin? 
Cyrano:  Yes,  Roxane. 

Le  Bret:   Thou  lovest  her?     Tell  her!     For  I  do  surmise 

Thou  art  to-day  a  hero  in  her  eyes. 
Cyrano:    Nay.     Shall  I  woo  the  loveliest  maid  in  France, — 

Look  at  me,  friend, — with  this  protuberance? 

Ah,  I  have  no  illusions.    Though  in  faith. 

Sometimes,  enchanted  by  the  twilight's  breath 

I  walk  in  gardens;  smell  the  dew-wet  rose 

— Yes,  with  my  poor  big  devil  of  a  nose, — 

I  breathe  Spring's  magic.     'Neath  a  silver  ray 

I  watch  a  lover  and  a  maiden  stray; 

I  dream,  even  I,  of  walking  'neath  that  beam, 

Loving,  beloved,  scarce  moving.    As  I  dream 

My  soul  expands,  exults, — but  soars  to  fall. 

I  see  my  profile  shadowed  on  the  wall. 
Le  Bret  {moved) :   My  friend. 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  243 

Cyrano:  I  have  bad  moments,  friend.     Sometimes  I  keep 

Apart,  knowing  myself  so  ugly  and   .    .    . 
Le  Bret  {tenderly,  seizing  his  hand)  :   You  weep? 
Cyrano:    No,  never  that.    Ah,  how  could  you  suppose 

I  would  let  a  tear  roll  down  this  length  of  nose? 

Never  will  I,  so  long  as  I  am  master, 

Let  beauty  so  divine  meet  such  disaster, — 

Ugliness  mar  perfection.     There  appears 

Upon  this  earth  naught  more  sublime  than  tears, 

I  would  submit  to  torture,  on  my  word, 

Rather  than  make  a  single  tear  absurd. 
Le  Bret:   Love  is  a  hazard  always.    Wiiy  despair? 
Cyrano:   Loving  Nile's  sorceress,  have  I  Caesar's  air? 

Adoring  Berenice,  am  I  Titus? 
Le  Bret:  Thy  courage,  man!     Thy  wit!     Say, — did  she  slight  us 

The  little  one  who  spread  your  modest  feast? 

Thou  art  not  hateful  in  her  eyes  at  least. 
Cyrano  {impressed) :  That's  true. 
Le  Bret:  Well,  then.     I,  too,  saw  Roxane  quail, 

Turn  pale  to  watch  thy  duel. 
Cyrano:  Roxane  .    .    .  pale? 

Le  Bret:   Hearts  follow  oft  where  admiration  goes. 

Speak  to  her.     Speak. 
Cyrano:  If  she  should  mock  my  nose? 

No!  That's  the  only  thing  on  earth  I  fear. 
The  Porter   {who  admits  someone,  to  Cyrano)  : 

Sir,  someone  seeks   .    .    . 
Cyrano  {seeing  Roxane's  duenna):    God!     Her  duenna,  here! 

SCENE  VI 
Cyrano,  Le  Bret,  the  Duenna 

The  Duenna  {zcith  a  profound  curtsey)  : 

To  her  brave  cousin,  one  sends  greeting,  who 
Wishes  in  secret  to  see  him. 

Cyrano  {overwhelmed)  :   See  me? 


244  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  Duenna  {with  another  curtsey)  :   Yes,  jou. 

Since  one  has  things  to  tell  you. 
Cyrano:  Th  .   .   .  things? 

The  Duenna  {bobbing  another  curtsey)  :   To  say. 
Cyrano  {trembling)  :   Lord  God! 
The  Duenna:   One  goes  to-morrow  at  the  first  pink  ray 

Of  dawn,  to  hear  mass  at  St.  Roche. 
Cyrano  {leaning  on  Le  Bret  for  support)  :   Lord  Godi  .   .   . 

to  pray.  .    .    . 
Duenna:    On  coming  out,  where  may  one  speak  a  word? 
Cyrano  {babbling) -. '\N\\tr^'^.    .    .    .   I   .    .    .    God  .   .   .  where? 

O  my  Lord!   ... 
Duenna  :  Say  quickly. 

Cyrano:  I  .  .   .  am  thinking  .   .   .  I  .   .  .  am  bound  .  .  . 

Duenna:  Where? 

Cyrano:    .   .   .  Ragueneau,  .    .   .  the  .   .   .  pastry  cook's.  .   .   . 
Duenna:  And  he  is  found?  .    .    . 

Cyrano:   What  street? — St.  Honore. — My  God!  I  swear  .   .   . 
The  Duenna  {withdrawing)  :    At  seven,  then.     Be  there. 
Cyrano:  Yes  .  .  .  I'll  be  there. 

{The  duenna  goes  out.) 

SCENE  VII 

Cyrano,  Le  Bret;  later,  the  Actors,  Cuigy,  Brissaille, 
LiGNiERE;  Porter,  Violins 

Cyrano  {falling  into  Le  Bret's  arms) : 

Me  ...  to  meet  her ! 
Le  Bret:  Eh  did  I  not  insist? 

Cyrano  :    She  knows, — at  least  she  knows,  that  I  exist. 
Le  Bret:   And  now  thou  wilt  be  calm? 
Cyrano:  Now  I  will  be 

Frantic  and  fulminating,  fearless,  free. 

A  bannered  army  could  not  fright  me  now. 

I  have  ten  hearts  and  twenty  arms  I  vow. 

Give  me  not  dwarfs   .    .    . 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  245 

(He  cries  aloud.)  Give  giants  to  disperse. 

(In  the  background,  the  stage  has  been  filling  with  players, 
who  move  about,  zvhispering;  they  begin  reciting  their  lines; 
the  violins  take  their  places.) 
A  Voice:    Silence,  in  front.     We're  going  to  rehearse. 
Cyrano  (laughing)  :   We  are  going, 

(He  goes  up,  just  as  the  great  door  at  the  back  partly  opens 
and  admits  CuiGY,  Brissaille^  and  a  number  of  officers, 
who    support    LiGNlERE,    who    is    helplessly,    completely, 
drunk.) 
Cuigy:   CjTano! 
Cyrano:  What's  this? 

Cuigy:  Well  may'st  thou  stare, — 

Drunk  as  an  owl. 
Cyrano  (recognizing  him):    Hola!    What's  wrong,  Ligniere? 
Cuigy:   He  sought  thee. 
Brissaille  :  For  he  can't  go  home. 

Cyrano:  Why  not? 

Ligniere  (thickly,  and  displaying  a  crumpled  bit  of  paper)  : 
Thish  letter  sash   ...   a  hundred   ...   a  great  lot, 
Lyin'  in  wait;   .    .    .   don't  like  that  song  of  mine. 
At  the  Nesle  Gate.  .    .    .I'm  sleepy.     Can't  get  mine, 
So  I'll  take  thy  bed,  if  thou'lt  gimme  room. 
Cyrano:  A  hundred  men?     Nay,  thou  shalt  sleep  at  home! 
Ligniere  (startled)  :    But  .   .    . 

Cyrano  (in  a  terrible  voice,  pointing  to  the  link  held  by  the  por- 
ter, who  has  stopped  to  listen)  :   Take  that  light. 
(Ligniere  seizes  it  precipitately.)     And  march.    For  I  have 

said 
I'll  be  your  shelter.     I  will  make  your  bed. 
(To  the  officers.) 

Come  ye,  as  witnesses.    But  do  not  press. 
Cuigy:   A  hundred! 
Cyrano:  I  to-night  could  meet  no  less. 

(The  players,  coming  doivn  from   the  stage,   in  divers  cos- 
tumes, crowd  around.) 


246  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Le  Bret:   But  why  protect  .    .    . 

Cyrano  :  Le  Bret,  who  scolds  at  once ! 

Le  Bret:  This  drunken  fool? 

Cyrano  :  Because  this  drunken  dunce, 

This  keg  of  wine,  this  sodden  liquor  tun, 

Once,  in  my  sight,  a  pretty  thing  has  done. 

Coming  from  Mass,  he  saw  his  mistress  take 

Some  holy  water,  and  for  her  sweet  sake. 

He, — who  fears  water, — to  the  font  did  fly 

And  bravely  bent  his  head  and  drank  it  dry. 
An  Actress  (costumed  as  an  Abigail)  :  Ah,  that  was  gentle. 
Cyrano:  Was  't  not,  Abigail? 

The  Actress  {to  the  others) :   But  why  five  score  to  make  one 

poet  quail? 
Cyrano  :    Forward !     And  you,  sirs,  who  shall  see  me  fight, 

I  charge  you  come  not  nigh,  whate'er  my  plight. 
Another  Actress  {jumping  from  the  stage) :  I  am  going  to  see. 
Cyrano:  Come. 
Another  {leaping  from  the  stage,  to  an  older  actor)  : 

Come  thou,  Cassander. 
Cyrano:    Come  all,  the  Doctor,  Isabelle,  Leander. 

Come,  charming,  motley  multitude!     We'll  see 

Italian  farce  with  Spanish  tragedy. 

To  our  alarums  add  your  raptures  keen, 

As  tinkling  bells  surround  a  tambourine. 
All  the  Actresses  {in  a  joyful  flurry) : 

A  mantle!     Quick,  my  hood!    The  play  begins. 
Jodelet:  We'll  go. 
Cyrano  {to  the  orchestra)  :   Come,  play  an  air,  ye  violins. 

(  The  violins  join  the  procession  that  is  forming.  Somebody 
snatches  the  lighted  candles  from  the  sconces  that  make  the 
footlights.     It  becomes  a  torchlight  parade.) 

Bravo.    The  soldiers,  players  in  costume, 

And  twenty  paces  in  advance   .    .    . 

{He  goes  forward  as  he  speaks)      My  plume. 

Above  my  brow  let  flames  of  glory  flicker, — 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  247 

Prouder  than  Scipio  and  thrice  Nasica! 
'Tis  understood  ?     No  man  shall  aid  me,  more 
Than  by  his  presence.     Now  .    .    ,   fling  wide  the  door. 
( The  porter  throws  the  great  door  open.     A  corner  of  old 

Paris  is  seen  in  the  dim  moonlight.) 
Paris  before  us,  wrapped  in  veils  of  mist, 
Her  sloping  roofs  by  passing  moonbeams  kissed. 
Exquisite  frame  for  our  heroic  scene. 
The  Seine  below,  though  mists  may  intervene, 
Lies  like  a  magic  mirror,  tremblingly 
Waiting,  like  you,  to  see — what  you  shall  see! 
All:  To  the  Nesle  Gate! 

Cyrano  {erect  on  the  threshold)  :   To  the  Nesle  Gate! 
All:  Nesle  Gate! 

Cyrano  (before  starting,  he  turns  to  the  actress,  Abigail)  : 
I  think,  my  dear,  'twas  you  who  asked  of  late 
Why  five  score  cut-throats  on  one  many  attend  ? 
(He  draws  his  sword,  and,  tranquilly)  : 
'Twas  known  the  rhymer  had  me  for  a  friend. 
(He  goes  out.      The  procession,  with  LlGNiiiRE  zigzagging 
at  the  head,  then  the  actresses  on  the  arms  of  the  officers, 
then  the  actors  pranking  as  they  go,  marches  into  the  night, 
to  the  music  of  the  violins  and  illuminated  by  the  flickering 
brightness  of  the  candles.) 

(Curtain) 


ACT  II 
The  Poet's  Bake  Shop 

The  shop  of  Ragueneau,  roaster  and  pastry  cook.  A  great 
kitchen  at  the  intersection  of  St.  Honor e  and  Abre  Sec.  Seen 
through  the  glass  panes  in  the  door,  at  the  back,  the  streets  are 
gray  in  the  first  light  of  dawn. 

In  the  foreground,  at  the  left,  a  counter  is  surmounted  by  a 
stand  of  wrought  iron,  from  which  depend  geese,  ducks,  and  white 
peacocks.  In  big  crockery  vases  are  cojnmon  garden  flowers,  chiefly 
sunfloivers.  On  the  same  side,  farther  back,  a  huge  fireplace,  in 
front  of  which,  between  ?nonstrous  andirons  on  each  of  ivhich  is  a 
small  kettle,  roasts  turn  and  sizzle  into  dripping-pans. 

At  the  right,  front,  a  door.  Farther  back,  a  staircase  leads  to  a 
tiny  dining-room  under  the  roof,  a  little  room  ivhose  interior  is 
seen  through  the  open  shutters;  a  table  is  set  and  a  tiny  Flemish 
lustre  is  lighted.  A  wooden  gallery,  folloiuing  the  staircase,  seems 
to  lead  to  other  little  dining-rooms. 

In  the  middle  of  the  shop,  an  iron  ring  hung  with  game  may 
be  lifted  or  lowered,  by  a  chain. 

The  ovens  glow  in  the  shadows  under  the  staircase.  Copper 
gleams.  The  spits  turn.  Pastries  in  pyramids.  Hams  hung  from 
hooks. 

It  is  the  busy  hour  when  the  ovens  arc  heated  hottest.  A  swarm 
of  scared  scullions,  fat  cooks  and  little  'prentices.  A  sea  of  caps 
bedecked  with  chicken  feathers  or  guinea  ivings.  On  great  pieces 
of  sheet  iron,  or  in  wicker  trays,  are  quantities  of  pastries  and  fancy 
dishes  of  all  kinds. 

Tables  are  spread  with  platters  of  cakes  and  rolls.  Some,  with 
chairs  placed,  await  their  guests. 

A  little  table  in  a  corner  is  covered  with  a  mass  of  papers. 

Ragueneau  is  discovered  there,  as  the  curtain  rises.  He  is 
writing. 

248 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  249 

SCENE  I 
Ragueneau;  Cooks  and  'Prentices;  later,  LiSE.     Ragueneau, 
at  the  little  table,  writing  with  a  rapt  air  and  counting  on 
his  fingers. 
First  Cook  {shoiving  a  mounted  piece)  :   Almond  cakes! 
Second  Cook  {bringing  a  mold)  :   Custard. 
Third  Cook  {bringing  a  roast  dish  decked  with  feathers)  : 

Peacock. 
Fourth  Cook  {carrying  a  tray)  :  Brown  roast. 
Fifth  Cook  {bringing  an  earthenware  dish)  :  Stew. 
Ragueneau  {quits  writing  and  raises  his  head)  : 

Upon  the  saucepans  gleams  the  dawn  anew. 

Stifle,  my  soul,  thy  song,  the  gods'  best  dower. 

The  lute's  hour  passes, — 'tis  the  oven's  hour. 

{He  stands  up.     To  a  cook.) 

A  dust  of  flour.     That  pastry  is  too  short. 
The  Cook:    How  much? 
Ragueneau:  Two  feet. 

{He  passes,  leaving  the  cook  staring  after  him  and  saying)  : 

Huh? 
First  Pastry  Cook:    A  tartlet. 
Second  Cook:  A  new  sort. 

Ragueneau  {standing  in  front  of  the  fireplace) : 

Depart,  my  Muse.     I  pray  thee  now  retire, 

Lest  thy  sweet  eyes  be  reddened  by  my  fire. 

{To  a  pastry  cook,  pointing  to  some  fancy  pastry) 

You  have  misplaced  the  dent  in  all  these  dishes. 

Ceasura  falls  between  the  hemistiches. 

{To  another,  showing  an  imperfect  tart.) 

This  pasty  palace  lacks,  as  yet,  a  roof. 

{To  a  small  apprentice  who,  sitting  on  the  floor,  is  stringing 
poultry  on  a  spit) 

Place  thou  on  this  long  rod,  at  my  behoof, 

The  modest  pullet,  turkey  cock  superb; — 

Alternate  them,  my  son,  as  old  Malherbe 

Used  measures  long,  then  short.     So  I  discern 

My  roasts  like  strophes  on  the  spit  shall  turn. 


250  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Another  Apprentice  (advancing  with  a  dish  carefully  covered)  : 

Master,  I've  made,  because  of  my  desire 

To  please  j'ou  this   .    .    .    this  pastry. 

{He  uncovers  the  dish  and  proudly  displays  a  great  pastry 
model  of   .    .    . ) 
Ragueneau  {dazzled):  It's  a  lyre! 

The  Apprentice  :  All  of  puff  pastry. 

Ragueneau  {touched)  :  And  of  sugared  fruit. 

The  Apprentice:   See,  sir,  I  made  spun  sugar  cords,  to  boot. 
Ragueneau  {giving  him  a  piece  of  silver)  :   Go  drink  my  health. 

{He  sees  LiSE,  who  enters.)     My  wife.     'Sh.     Make  no  fuss. 

And  hide  the  coin! 

{To  LiSE,  shoiving  the  lyre  with  some  embarrassment) 
Handsome? 
Lise:  Ridiculous. 

{She  puts  a  pile  of  paper  sacks  on  the  table.) 
Ragueneau:  Sacks?    Thank  you.    That  is  good. 

{He  examines  them.)  My  precious  books! 

To  hold  the  biscuit  some  apprentice  cooks ! 

The  verses  of  my  friends,  dismembered  thus ! 

So  the  bacchantes  dealt  with  Orpheus. 
Lise  {acidly)  :    I  couldn't  make  them  into  coin  nor  raiment, — 

And  that  was  all  them  poets  left  in  payment. 

Yes,  every  poet  left  some  limping  line. 
Ragueneau:  Ant,  who  insult  my  cicacas  divine! 
Lise:    Before  they  came,  though  praise  was  always  scanty, 

You  never  called  me  ant, — nor  yet  bacchante! 
Ragueneau:  To  use  poems  so! 

Lise:  To  find  a  use  for  those! 

Ragueneau:   Woman,  I  wonder  what  you'd  do  to  prose. 

SCENE  II 

The  Same.     Two  Children  who  have  entered 

Ragueneau  :  What  do  you  want,  dears? 
First  Child:  Three  pies. 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  251 

Ragueneau  {serving  them)  :   Well-browned,  see? 

And  smoking  hot. 
Second  Child:  Please  wrap  'em  up  for  me. 

Ragueneau  {nside,  distressed)  :    Alas,  my  bags 

(To  the  child)  Huh?    Wrap  them  up?     Let's  see. 

{He  takes  a  sack  and  as  he  is  about  to  put  the  pics  in  it,  he 

reads)  : 
"Even  as  Ulysses  left  Penelope  ..." 
Not   that   one. 
{He  puts  it  asifle  and  takes  another.     As  he  is  putting  the 

cakes  in  it,  he  reads)  : 
"Ah,  fair  Phoebus,"  Oh,  not  this. 
LiSE  {impatiently)  :   What  makes  you  dally  so? 
Ragueneau  {takes  a  third,  resignedly)  :    Child,  here  it  is. 
"Sonnet  to  Phyllis.^'     All  the  same,  I  warn  ye 
It's  hard. 
LiSE   {shrugging  her  shoulders)  : 

Well,  well,  at  last !  .  .  .  The  silly  Sawny ! 
{She  climbs  on  a  chair  and  begins  to  arrange  the  china  on  a 
plate  rail.) 
Ragueneau  {profiting  by  the  fact  that  her  back  is  turned,  recalls 
the  children  who  are  at  the  door)  : 
'Pst,  dears.     Bring  back  the  sonnet  on  the  sack. 
I'll  make  it  six  pies,  if  you  bring  it  back. 
{The  children  hand  hack  the  bag  with  avidity,  clutch  the  six 
pies  and  go  out.     Ragueneau,  ripping  the  bag  open  with 
his  thumb,  begins  to  read,  declaiming)  : 
"Phyllis!"     That  sweet  name  buttered!     And  a  smudge  of 

flour.     "Phyllis!" 
(Cyrano  enters  hurriedly.) 

SCENE  III 

Ragueneau,  Lise,  Cyrano  ;  later,  the  Trooper 

Cyrano:   What  time  is  it? 

Ragueneau  {bowing  profoundly)  :    Six  o'clock. 


252  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano  (with  emotion)  :  In  one  hour! 

Ragueneau    {foUoiving  him):    Bravo!     I  saw   .    .    . 
Cyrano  :   Eh  ?    What  ? 
Ragueneau  :  Your  combat. 

Cyrano  :  Combat  ? 

Ragueneau:   At  the  Hotel  of  Burgundy. 
Cyrano  {disdainfully)  :  Oh,  that! 

Ragueneau  (admiringly)  :   Duel  in  verse. 
LiSE :  He  just  can't  say  too  much. 

Cyrano:   Come  now.     That's  good.  * 

Ragueneau  (fencing  with  a  basting  needle  which  he  seizes)  : 
"At  the  envoy's  end,  I  touch." 

"At  the  envoy's  end  I  touch."    And  done  just  so. 

(With  mounting  enthusiasm)  At  the  envoy's  end.  .    .   . 
Cyrano:  What  time  is  it,  Ragueneau? 

Ragueneau   (still  on  guard,  basting  needle  poised,  looks  at  the 
clock) : 

Five  minutes  past.     "I  touch."    That's  hard  to  match. 
LiSE  (to  Cyrano,  who  in  passing  the  counter  has  absent-mind- 
edly pressed  his  hand)  :  What  is  the  matter  with  your  hand  ? 
Cyrano:  A  scratch. 

Ragueneau:  You've  been  in  peril. 

Cyrano  :  No.    None.    Be  at  ease. 

LiSE  (shaking  her  finger  at  hi/n)  :   I  think  you're  lying. 
Cyrano:  Does  my  nose  blush,  Lise? 

I  must  have  told  a  most  enormous  lie.  .   .    .  I  .   .   . 

(Changing  his  manner.)      I  expect  some  one.     And  if   .    .    . 
they  .    .  • .  pass  not  by. 

You  will  leave  us  quite  alone. 
Ragueneau  :  Alone  I  That  chance  has  passed. 

My  rhymers  come. 
LiSE  (ironically)  :  And  come  to  break  their  fast. 

Cyrano:   Take  them  away,  when  I  shall  give  the  sign. 

What  time  is  it? 
Ragueneau:  Ten  minutes  past. 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  253 

Cyrano  {nervously,  seating  himself  at  Ragueneau's  table,  and 

taking  a  sheet  of  paper)  :  A  quill. 

Ragueneau   {offering  him  the  one  stuck  above  his  own  ear)  : 
Sir,  honour  mine! 

This  swan's  quill. 
A  Trooper  {u'ith  splendid  moustaches,  and  very  resplendent,  en- 
ters and  in  a  stentorian  voice  calls)  :   Greeting. 
Cyrano  {turning  and  looking)  :   Who's  that? 
Ragueneau:   Friend  of  my  wife's.    I'm  told 

— By  him, — a  famous  warrior, 
Cyrano  {taking  the  quill  and  dismissing  Ragueneau  with  a  ges- 
ture) :    To  write   ...   to  fold   .    .    . 

{To  himself)  To  give  it  to  her  and  to  fly. 

{He  throws  down  the  pen)  Poltroon! 

I  cannot,  for  my  life   .    .    . 

{To  Ragueneau)  What  time  is  it? 

Ragueneau:  Soon 

'Twill  be  a  quarter  past. 
Cyrano  {striking  his  breast)  :    Speak  one  word  of  all 

My  heart  says  ceaselessly   .    .    .   Whate'er  befall, 

I'll  write  this  letter,  written  in  my  heart 

A  hundred  times  already,  so  my  part. 

Putting  my  soul  upon  this  paper  fair, 

Is  but  to  copy  what  is  graven  there. 

{He  writes.     Through  the  glass  panes  in  the  door  one  sees 
thin,  hesitating  shadow's.) 

SCENE  IV 

Ragueneau,  Lise,  the  trooper;  Cyrano,  zcriting  at  the  little 
table;  the  poets,  dressed  in  black,  ungartered,  stockings 
muddy. 

LiSE  {to  Ragueneau)  :   There  is  your  crew. 
First  Poet  {entering,  to  Ragueneau)  :    Brother! 
Second  Poet   {grasping  Ragueneau's  hand)  :    Fellow,  beyond 
compare! 


254  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Third  Poet:  Eagle  of  Pastry  Cooks. 

(He  snuffs  the  air)  Your  -erie's  air 

Is  sweet. 
Fourth  Poet:   O  Phoebus  Roaster! 
Fifth  Poet:  Cook  of  harmonies 

Ragueneau  (surrounded,  embracedj  patted  on  the  shoulder)  : 

How  these  great  men  do  make  you  feel  at  ease ! 
First  Poet:   We  were  retarded  by  the  swarming  crowd 

About  the  Nesle  Gate. 
Second  Poet:  There,  without  a  shroud, 

Eight  bloody  brigands  on  the  stones  below. 
Cyrano   (raising  his  head  for  a  moment):    Eight?     I  thought, 

seven. 
Ragueneau:  Master,  do  you  know 

The  hero  of  this  combat? 
Cyka^O  (indifferently):    I?     No. 
LiSE   (to  the  trooper):    You? 

The  Trooper  (tiuirling  his  moustaches) :    Maybe. 
Cyrano  (writing,  apart.     From  time  to  time  one  hears  a  mur- 

inured  word)  :    /  love  you. 
First  Poet:    One,  they  say, — a  sight  to  see, — 

Put  all  the  band  to  flight. 
Second  Poet:  A  strange  heap  lies 

There  on  the  stone, — pikes,  bludgeons  .    .    . 
Cyrano  (writing)  :  Your  sweet  eyes  .    .    . 

Third  Poet:   They  have  found  hats  clean  to  the  dockyard  slips. 
First  Poet:   Gad,  he  must  be  ferocious. 
Cyrano:  Your  dear  lips. 

First  Poet:   Giant  and  hero  must  that  man  appear. 
Cyrano  (writing)  :    Beholding  you,  I  almost  swoon  with  fear. 
Second  Poet  (to  Ragueneau,  while  he  snaps  up  a  cake)  : 

What  new  rhymes  have  you  written? 
Cyrano:  How  divine  .    .   . 

(He  zvritcs  a  ferv  words  more,  is  about  to  sign  the  letter,  but 
checks  himself,  and  rising,  thrusts  it  into  his  doublet.) 

I'll  give  it  her  myself.     What  need  to  sign? 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  255 

Ragueneau  (to  the  Second  Poet)  :   A  recipe  in  verse. 
Third  Poet  {installing  himself  near  a  plate  of  cream  puffs) : 

Let's  hear,  say  I. 
Fourth  Poet  {looking  at  a  tart  he  has  taken)  : 
This  sweet  thing  has  her  bonnet  quite  awry. 
{He  removes  it  with  one  bite.) 
First  Poet:  This  gingerbread  pursues  a  famished  lover 
With  ahnond  eyes  angelic  eyebrows  cover. 
{He  breaks  off  a  piece.) 
Second  Poet:  We  listen   .    .    . 
Third  Poet  {lightly  pinching  a  cream  puff)  : 

The  puff's  already  touched,  you  see. 
Second  Poet  {eating  a  piece  of  the  puff -paste  lyre)  : 

For  the  first  time,  the  lyre  has  nourished  me. 
Ragueneau   {ready  to  recite,  coughs,  straightens  his  cap,  strikes 

an  attitude)  :    A  Recipe  in  Verse. 
Second  Poet  {nudging  First  Poet)  :  You  breakfast? 
First  Poet  {to  Second  Poet)  :  On  your  part, 

You  dine? 
Ragueneau  :   The  Way  To  Make  An  Almond  Tart. 
Stir,  but  do  not  beat,  one  begs, 

Certain  eggs. 
Beat  into  the  yelky  batter 
Lemons  sour. 
Then  you  pour 
Sweet  milk  of  almonds,  later. 

Now,  puff  paste  lightly  fold 

Into  a  mold. 
With  skillful  touch 

Put  apricots  to  hide 

The  paste  inside. 
Haste  not  too  much 

As  custard  fills  each  well ; — 
Yet,  e'er  they  swell 


256  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Be  sure  the  baking  starts. 

They  troop  out  light  and  fair. 
See  them  there, — 
Lovely  almond  tarts. 
Poets    {talking  with   their  ?nouths  full)  :  Exquisite!     Oh,  deli- 
cious! 
A  Poet  {choking)  :  Humph. 

{They  go  back,  eating.     Cyrano,  who  has  been  watching 
them,  goes  to  Ragueneau.) 
Cyrano:  Lulled  by  thy  voice, 

Seest  thou  not  how  they  pilfer? 
Ragueneau  {whispering  and  smiling)  :    It's  my  choice. 
I  see  but  look  away,  to  save  them  trouble. 
And,  so  to  say,  my  verses  serve  me  double. 
I  have  my  weakness,  sir.    I  find  it  sweet 
To  read  my  rhymes  and  let  the  hungry  eat. 
Cyrano  {clapping  him  on  the  shoulder)  :   Thou  pleasest  me. 

(Ragueneau  goes  to  rejoin  his  friends.     Cyrano  follows 

him  with  his  eyes,  and  then,  rather  sternly)  :    Ho,  Lise. 
(Lise,  in  tender  conversation  with   the  trooper,  starts,  and 

comes  forward  to  Cyrano)    This  Captain  here 
Lays  siege?   .    .    . 
Lise  {with  injured  dignity)  :  I  can  protect  my  virtue, — never  fear. 

My  downcast  eyes  can  lift  and  flash,  and  so   .    .    . 
Cyrano:   I  find  your  downcast  eyes  look  somewhat  low. 
Your  husband  pleases  me,  so   .    .    .   mind  your  eyes. 
Let  no  one  wrong  him,  and  no  man  despise. 
Lise:   But  .    .    . 

Cyrano  {zvho  has  raised  his  voice  so  the  gallant  can  hear)  : 
To  a  wise  listener,    .    .    . 

{He  salutes  the  trooper,  and  goes  to  watch  near  the  door, 
having  looked  at  the  clock.) 
Lise:  I'm  surprised.     Suppose 

{To  the  trooper,  who  has  merely  returned  Cyrano's  salute) 
You  call  him!  .  .  .  Make  remarks  .   .  .  about  his  nose. 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  257 

The  Trooper:  His  nose.   .    .    .    His  nose  .    .    . 

{He  hastens  farther  off,  LiSE  follouing.) 
Cyrano  {at  the  door  motions  to  Raguexeau  to  take  his  poets 

away)  :    'Pst   .    .    . 
Ragueneau  {showing  the  poets  the  door  at  the  left)  : 

We  shall  have  quiet  here. 
Cyrano  {impatiently)  :    'Pst.   .    .    .    Tst   .    .    . 
Ragueneau:  To  read 

Our  poems. 
First  Poet  {despairingly,  with  his  mouth  full)  :   But  the  pastry? 
Second  Poet:  Take  it  along. 

{They  troop  after  Ragueneau,  having  rifled  the  platters.) 

SCENE  V 
Cyrano,  Roxane,  the  Duenna 

Cyrano:  Indeed 

I'll  draw  the  letter  out  if  there  appear 

One  ray  of  hope. 

(Roxane,  masked,  followed  by  the  duenna,  appears  at  the 
panes  in  the  door.     lie  hurriedly  throws  it  open.) 

Come  in !  .   .   . 

{He  marches  up  to  the  duenna)  Two  words,  duenna,  hear. 
The  Duenna:  Four. 
Cyrano:    Do  you  love  eating? 
Duenna  :  Aye,  to  make  me  ill. 

Cyrano  {hastily  taking  some  paper  bags  from  the  counter)  : 

Good.    Here's  a  sonneL  .   .   . 
Duenna:    Huh? 
Cyrano:  Which  I  dared  to  fill 

With  cream  cakes. 
The  Duenna  {her  expression  changing)  :    Oh! 
Cyrano:  Perhaps  you  haven't  seen 

The  little  cake  they  call  an  almandine? 
The  Duenna:    Oh,  I  adore  them.     No  word  is  too  strong. 
Cyrano:   I  plunge  six  in  the  bosom  of  a  song, — 


258  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

One  by  Saint-Amand.     Chapelain's  verses  soon 
Shall  seem  less  heavy  for  this  macaroon. 
Do  you  like  fruit  cakes? 
Duenna:  I  could  sit  and  eat 

Forever  .    .    . 
Cyrano  {piling  her  arms  with  the  bulging  bags)  : 

Kindly  do  it,  in  the  street. 
Duenna:   But  .    .    . 

Cyrano  {pushing  her  out)  :   And  don't  come  back,  while  there's 
a  dust  of  flour. 
{He  closes  the  door,  and  comes  down  toward  Roxane,  and 
stops,  his  head  bared,  at  a  respectful  distance.) 

SCENE  VI 
Cyrano,  Roxane,  the  Duenna  for  an  instant 

Cyrano:    Blessed  above  its  fellows  be  the  hour, 

When  you  remembered  that  I  breathe, — the  day 

Thrice  blest  when  from  so  far  you  came  to  say  .    .    . 

To  say   .    .    .    ? 
Roxane:   First  of  all, — thank  you,  that  a  man  I  hated 

Was  by  your  valor  utterly  checkmated. 

'Tis  he  ...  a  certain  lord  .   .   . 
Cyrano:  Of  Guiche? 

Roxane:  .   .   .  Had  planned 

To  impose  as  husband   ... 
Cyrano  :  Whom  he  could  command. 

{Bowing)  My  fight  becomes  a  worthier  emprise, — 

Not  for  my  ugly  nose,  but  your  sweet  eyes. 
Roxane:   And  then  ...  I  wanted  .    .    .  Oh,  to  tell  this  other 

I  must  recall  in  you  the  almost  brother 

When  we  were  playmates  .   .   .  call  our  childhood  back. 
Cyrano:   You  spent  the  summers,  then,  at  Bergerac. 
Roxane:   You  fashioned  swords  of  reeds  down  by  the  lake. 
Cyrano:  And  corn  silk  gave  your  puppets  curls  to  shake. 
Roxane:  That  was  our  playtime. 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  259 

Cyrano:  There  wild  berries  grew. 

Roxane:   And  you  did  everything  I  asked  you  to. 

Cyrano:   Roxane  in  pinafores  was  Madeleine. 

Roxane:   And  was  I  pretty,  then? 

Cyrano:  You  were  not  plain! 

Roxane:   Sometimes,  in  climbing,  you  would  scratch  your  fingers. 

Then,  playing  mother, — how  the  memory  lingers, — 

I'd  tell  you,  in  a  voice  that  tried  to  scold 

{She  takes  his  lumd) 

"Now  how  did  you  do  that?   ...   A  boy  so  old." 

{She  stops,  distressed) 

Oh,  mercy!    This  is  dreadful.    This   .    .    . 

{He  tries  to  take  his  hand  away.) 

No.     Bring 

It  close.    A  great,  big  boy  like  you!     A  pretty  thing! 

Where  didst  thou  do  it? 
Cyrano:  At  the  Nesle  Gate  where  I  went  to  play. 

Roxane  {sitting  down  at  a  table  and  moistening  her  handkerchief 

in  a  glass  of  water)  :    Give  it  to  me. 
Cyrano   {sitting  down,  too)  :    So  gentle  and  so  gay! 
Roxane:   And  while  I  wash  the  blood  off,  tell  me  then 

There  were  against  you    .    .    .    ? 
Cyrano  :  Not  quite  five  score  men. 

Roxane:   Tell  me! 
Cyrano:  Nay,  let  that  go.     Can  you  declare 

The  thing  but  now  you  dared  not  say  .    .    .    ? 
Roxane:  But  now,  I  dare. 

{She  is  still  wiping  the  blood  from  his  ivounded  hand) 

Winds  from  the  past  have  given  me  strength  to  prove 

My  courage.  .   .   .  There  is  someone  .   .   .  that  ...  I  love. 
Cyrano:   Ah! 

Roxane:  One  who  does  not  know  it. 

Cyrano:  Ah! 

Roxane:  Not  yet. 

Cyrano :   Ah ! 
Roxane:   Who  soon  shall  know  on  whom  my  heart  is  set. 


260  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano:   Ah! 

Roxane:         a  poor  boy  who  loves  me  timidly, 

Humbly,  .    .   .  afar  .    .   .  and  dares  not  speak  to  me. 
Cyrano :   Ah ! 
Roxane:   Leave  me  your  hand.    'Tis  fevered.    But  I  read 

The  vows  that  trembled  on  his  lips  unsaid. 
Cyrano:   Ah! 

Roxane  {finishing  the  little  bandage  she  has  made  for  the 
wounded  hand)  :  And  ...  I  must  say  it  quick  .  .  .  lest 
I  repent, — 

He  serves,  my  cousin,  in  your  regiment. 
Cyrano :   Ah ! 

Roxane  {laughing)  :   And  is  cadet  in  your  own  company. 
Cyrano :   Ah ! 
Roxane:    His  brow  shows  genius  all  the  world  must  see. 

Brave,  proud,  young,  beautiful  .    .   . 
Cyrano  {rising,  deathly  pale)  :    Beautiful? 
Roxane:  You  spring 

Up,  pale.    What  is  it? 
Cyrano:  Naught,    This  .  .  .  this  .  .  . 

{He  indicates  his  hand  and  smiles)   .  .  .  this  .  .  .  pretty  thing. 
Roxane  :  I  love  him.  .   .   .  But  ...  I  should  confess,  maybe, 

.   .    .   I've  only  seen  him  at  the  Comedy. 
Cyrano:   You  have  not  talked? 
Roxane:  No.   .    .    .   Only  with  our  eyes. 

Cyrano:   How  do  you  know,  then   .    .    .    ? 
Roxane:  Under  evening  skies, 

Under  the  limes,  one  speaks  .   .    .  and  gossips  tell. 

One  listens,  if  tlie  heart  declare  as  well. 
Cyrano:    He  is  of  the  Guards? 
Roxane:  He  enters  as  cadet. 

Cyrano:    His  name? 

Roxane:  Christian,  Baron  of  Neuvillette. 

Cyrano:   He  isn't  of  the  Guards. 
Roxane:  Yes,  since  this  morning. 


CYRANO  OF  DERGERAC  261 

Cyrano:   'Twill  wound  her  heart,  yet  must  I  speak  this  warninj;. 

Poor  dear.   .    .    . 
The  Duenna  {opening  the  door  at  the  back)  : 
I  ate  them,  Sieur  of  Bcrgerac. 
Cyrano:   Then  read  the  sonnets  writ  upon  the  sack! 

{The  duenna  disappears.) 
Cyrano  {to  Roxane)  :    Poor  little  one, — You  who  devote  your 
youth 

To  lovely  thoughts,  what  if  he  prove  uncouth? 
Roxane:    He  is  curled  like  Urfe's  heroes,  for  the  world! 
Cyrano:   A  man  may  be  ill  spoken  though  well  curled! 
Roxane:    Nay,  all  his  words  are  perfect,  I  devine! 
Cyrano:    All  words  are  fine,  if  the  moustache  be  fine! 

— But  if  he  prove  a  dullard   .    .    .    ? 
Roxane:  I  shall  die! 

Cyrano  {after  a  pause)  :   You  brought  me  here  to  tell  me  this? 

But  why?  .    .    . 

Your  object,  madam, — that  eludes  me  still. 
Roxane:   Oh,  yesternight  a  chance  word  sent  a  chill 

Into  my  soul.    .    .    .   You're  all  of  Gascony   .    .    . 

And   .    .    . 
Cyrano:   They  say  we  try  the  mettle, — Ah,  I  see, — 

Of  all  outsiders  who,  by  God  His  grace 

Find  with  us  sons  of  Gascony  a  place. 

Is  it  that  they  told  you? 
Roxane:  Yes.    Ah,  you  can  see 

I  tremble  for  him. 
Cyrano  {between  his  teeth)  :    And  not  causelessly! 
Roxane:   So,  when  so  splendidly  but  yesternight 

I  saw  your  sword-play; — saw  you  put  to  flight 

All  who  opposed, — I  thought.  If  he  befriend  him  .  .  . 
Cyrano:    Your  little  baron's  safe.     I  will  defend  him. 
Roxane:   Oh,  truly?     Will  you  be  my  love's  defender? 

Our  friendship  always  has  been  strong  and  tender. 
Cyrano:  Yes,  yes. 
Roxane:   You'll  be  his  friend? 


262  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano:  I'll  be  his  friend. 

Roxane:   No  duels? 

Cyrano:  I  have  sworn.     You  may  depend. 

Roxane:  Oh,  I  do  love  you.  ...  I  must  take  my  flight. 

(She  hurriedly  puts  on  her  mask,  adjusts  her  lace  scarf,  and 
absent-mindedly)  You  haven't  told  me  of  your  famous  fight 

At  the  Nesle  Gate.  .   .   .  Surely  a  time  of  stress  .   .   . 

— Tell  him  to  write  .   .   . 

(She  throws  him  a  kiss  with  the  tips  of  her  finders.) 

O,  I  love  you! 
Cyrano:  Yes,  yes. 

Roxane:   A  hundred  men  against  you?  .   .   .  Good-bye,  then. 

We  are  such  friends. 
Cyrano:  Yes,  yes! 

Roxane  :  Tell  him !  .  .  .  A  hundred  men ! 

You'll  tell  me,  some  day.   .    .    .   Hero,  to  evince 

Such  courage.     Oh,  superb ! 
Cyrano  (saluting  her)  :  I  have  done  better  since. 

(She  goes  out.  Cyrano  remains  motionless,  his  eyes  on  the 
ground.  Silence.  The  door  on  the  Right  opens.  Rag- 
UENEAU  puts  his  head  in.) 

SCENE  VII 
Cyrano,  Ragueneau,  the  Poets,  Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux, 
the  Cadets,  the  Crowd  of  Admirers;  later,  the  Count  of 

GUICHE 

Ragueneau:   May  we  come  back? 
Cyrano  (motionless)  :  Yes. 

(Ragueneau  beckons  and  his  friends  the  poets  re-enter.    At 
the  same  time,  by  the  door  at  the  back,  appears  Carbon  OF 
Castel-Jaloux  in  Captain's  uniform.     He  comes  in,  de- 
lighted at  having  found  Cyrano)  :    Here  he  is! 
Cyrano  (raising  his  head)  :    Captain. 
Carbon  (exulting)  :  Ho, 

Our  hero!    We  know  all!    And  you  must  go, — 
Thirty  cadets  await  you   .    .    . 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  263 

Cyrano:   But    .    .    .    {He  draws  back.) 
Carbon   {trying  to  take  him)  :    Just  across 

The  corner  jonder. 
Cyrano  :    No. 

Carbon:  At  the  Traitor's  Cross. 

Cyrano:    I   .    .    . 
Carbon  {goes  to  the  door  and  calls  in  a  voice  of  thunder)  : 

Hero  refuses.     In  the  devil's  own  humor. 

{Tumult    without.     Clatter    of    swords    and    boots,    coming 
closer.) 
Carbon  {rubbing  his  hands  together)  : 

Crossing  the  street.     Maybe  you  heard  a  rumor? 
The  Cadets  {pouring  into  the  kitchen)  : 

Zounds!     'Sdeath!     Thousand  Devils!     Caputdedius! 
Ragueneau   {shrinking  back  before  this  onslaught)  : 

Sirs,  be  ye  Gascons  all? 
The  Cadets:  Aye,  all  of  us. 

A  Cadet  {to  Cyrano)  :   Bravo! 
Cyrano:  Baron!   .    .    . 

Another  {wringing  his  hand) :  Vivat! 
Cyrano:  Baron!   .    .    . 

Third  Cadet:  I  must  embrace  .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Baron!   .    .    . 

A  Number  of  Cadets:   Let's  all  embrace  him! 
Cyrano  {not  knowing  to  whom  to  speak  first)  : 

Barons   .    .    .   give  you  grace. 
Ragueneau  :  Sirs,  are  ye  barons  all  ? 
The  Cadets:  All. 

Ragueneau:  Each  that  breathes? 

First  Cadet:    Could  build  a  tower  of  our  baronial  wreaths. 
Le  Bret  {entering  and  rushing  up  to  Cyrano)  : 

They  seek  for  you, — a  crowd,  delirious,  led 

By  those  who  saw  last  night  the  blood  you  shed. 
Cyrano  {horrified)  :  You  told  them  where  to  find  me? 
Le  Bret  {rubbing  his  hands  together  contentedly)  :    But,  indeed! 


264  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

A  Citizen  {entering,  followed  by  a  group)  : 

The  world  of  fashion  follows,  and  we  lead ! 

{Without,  the  street  is  filled  with    the  fashionable  world. 
Sedan  chairs  and  coaches  stop  in  front  of  the  shop.) 
Le  Bret  {low,  smiling,  to  Cyrano)  :  And  Roxane? 
Cyrano  {tensely) :  Ah,  be  still! 

Ragueneau   {on  a  table,  as  a  mob  bursts  into  the  pastry  shop)  : 

Hey!    My  stand 

Is  wrecked,  my  molds  are  broken!     Ain't  it  grand! 
Various  People  {surrounding  Cyrano)  :   My  friend  .   .   . 

My  friend    .    .    .    My  friend   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  I  had  not,  yesterday, 

So  many  friends. 
A  Little  Marquis  {running  up,  hands  outstretched)  : 

If  thou  knewst,  ...  if,  I  say,  .   .   . 
Cyrano:   If  thou?    If  thouf    Did  we  herd  goats  together? 
Another  Marquis:   I'd  have  you  meet  some  ladies  who  .   .  . 
Cyrano  {icily) :  What  other 

Will  first  present  you  to  me? 
Le  Bret  {confounded)  :  Thou  dost  ill. 

What  ails  thee,  Cyrano? 
Cyrano:  Ah,  thou  be  still! 

A  Man  of  Letters  {with  a  writing  board) : 

May  I  have  details   .    .    .    ? 
Cyrano:  No, 

Le  Bret  {nudging  Cyrano)  :  That  is  Renaudot. 

Inventor  of  the  new  gazette. 
Cyrano  :  Just  so. 

Le  Bret:   The  sheet  that  tells  what  all  men  do  or  hear, — 

They  say  it  has  a  future,  that  idea. 
A  Poet  {advancing) :    Sir   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  More!   .    .    . 

7"he  Poet:   Your  name  in  pentacrostic,  sir.     I  wish 

To  read  to   .    .    . 
Another:  Sir  .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Enough!   .    .    . 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  265 

{A  stir  in  the  crowded  room.  The  crowd  ranges  itself  in  two 
rows.  The  Count  of  Guiche  appears  with  an  escort  of 
officers.  CuiGY,  Brissaille,  and  the  officers  who  went 
ivith  Cyrano  at  the  end  of  the  first  act.  CuiGY  conies 
hurriedly  to  Cyrano.) 
Cuigy:  The  Count  of  Guiche! 

{A  murmur  of  excitement.     Everybody  makes  way.) 

Marshall  of  Gassion  bade  him  take  occasion   .    .    . 
The  Count  of  Guiche  {saluting  Cyrano)  : 

He  bade  me  bear  to  you  his  admiration 

Of  the  new  exploit  whose  report  has  run   .    .    . 
The  Crowd:   Bravo! 

Cyrano  (bowing)  :   No  better  judge  of  courage  could  be  won. 
Guiche  :   He  could  not  have  believed  your  enterprise, 

But  they  who  told  had  seen  it. 
Cuigy:  With  our  eyes! 

Le  Bret  (aside,  to  Cyrano,  whose  thoughts  seem  far  away)  : 

But  .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Ah,  be  still. 
Le  Bret:   Thou  seem'st  to  suffer. 
Cyrano  (trembling  and  turning  quickly):    Zounds! 

Before  the  world?    Watcli! 

(His  moustache  bristles;  his  chest  heaves.) 
Guiche  (to  whom  Cuigy  has  whispered  something)  : 

Your  career  abounds 

In  exploits,  and  you  serve,  they  tell  me  thus, 

With  these  mad  Gascons? 
Cyrano  :  Yes. 

A  Cadet  (in  a  huge  voice)  :    He  is  one  of  Us. 
Guiche  (looking  at  the  Gascons  ranged  behind  Cyrano)  : 

Ha !     AH  these  gentlemen  in  haughty  rows. 

Are  they  the  famous  .   .   . 
Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux:   Cyrano! 
Cyrano:  Captain? 

Carbon  :  I  propose, — 


266  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  Company's  all  present,  as  for  mount, — 
Pray  you,  present  the  Gascons  to  the  Count. 
Cyrano  {taking  two  steps  toward  the  Count  of  Guiche  and 
presenting  the  Cadets)  : 

These  are  Gascony's  darling  cadets 
Of  Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux  ; 
Brazen  braggarts,  each  man  of  them  bets, 
— These  are  Gascony's  darling  cadets, — 
That  for  blasons  and  chevrons  and  frets 
No  kingling  can  rank  with  our  crew. 
These  are  Gascony's  darling  cadets 
Of  Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux. 

Stork's  leg,  eagle  eye,  none  forgets, 

Cat's  moustache  with  wolf  fangs  showing  too. 

If  a  cur  snarls,  no  quarter  he  gets. 

Stork's  leg,  eagle  eye,  none  forgets. 

On  his  head  an  old  beaver  each  sets, 

— Plume  acock  though  the  wind  whistles  through! — 

Stork's  leg,  eagle  eye,  none  forgets, 

Cat's  moustache  with  wolf   fangs  showing  too! 

Crack-pates  and  slash-bellies,  these  pets, 

No  tenderer  name  is  their  due; 

A  glutton  for  glory,  none  lets, 

— Crack-pates  and  slash-bellies,  these  pets, — 

Till  with  blood  and  with  battle  he  sweats 

Wherever  there's  fighting  to  do. 

— Crack-pates  and  slash-bellies,  these  pets, 

No  tenderer  name  is  their  due! 

These  are  Gascony's  darling  cadets 
Of  Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux. 
All  rivals  their  dominance  rue, 
Such  love  their  wild  wooing  begets. 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  267 

Every  husband  must  sliake  in  his  shoe. 
Sound  the  fife!  Sound  the  drum!  Sing  Cuckoo! 
These  are  Gascony's  darh'ng  cadets. 
Of  Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux! 

GuiCHE    (coolly,  seated  in  an  armchair  uliich   Ragueneau  has 
hastened  to  fetch)  :  A  poet  is  the  fashion,  I  infer. 

Will  you  be  mine? 
Cyrano:  I  will  be  no  man's,  sir. 

Guiche:    My  uncle,  Richelieu,  who  went  abroad 

Last  night,  was  entertained.     'Tis  he   .    .    . 
Le  Bret  (dazzled)  :  Good  Lord! 

Guiche:    You've  rhymed  at  least  five  acts,  I  will  engage? 
Le  Bret  (whispering)  :    You'll  see  your  Agrippina  on  the  stage! 
Guiche:    Bring  them  to  him   .    .    . 
Cyrano  (tempted ,  a  little  charmed)  :   Truly   .    .    . 
Guiche:  He  is  most  learned. 

Your  lines  will  be  corrected,  newly  turned   .    .    . 
Cyrano  (whose  face  changes  instantly)  : 

Impossible,  my  lord.     My  blood  is  frozen 

To  think  of  one  least  comma  newly  chosen. 
Guiche:    But  if  a  poem  please  him,  you  shall  hear 

How  well  he  pays. 
Cyrano:  Nay,  he  would  pay  less  dear 

Than  L     When  I  have  made  a  verse  I  find  well  made, 

I  sing  it  to  myself  and  am  repaid. 
Guiche  :  Sir,  you  are  proud. 

Cyrano:  Sir,  you  are  not  mistaken. 

A  Cadet  (coming  in  with  his  sword  strung  with  hats,  with  plumes 
bedraggled,  battered  and  broken)  : 

See,  Cyrano,  the  bag  of  game  we've  taken, 

Down  by  the  wharf.     The  fox  escaped  the  toils 

But  left  his  brush. 
Carbon:  So,  to  the  victor,  spoils. 

Everybody  (laughing):   Ah,  ha-ha! 
Cuigy:   The  man  who  hired  that  rabble,  made  that  plan, 

Must  rage  to-day. 


268  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Brissaille:  Is't  known? 

Guiche:  I  am  the  man. 

(The  laughter  ceases.) 

I  charged  them  to  chastise, — one  must  forego  it, 

Though  tempted,  for  oneself, — a  drunken  poet. 

{An  embarrassed  silence.) 
The  Cadet    {whispering  to  Cyrano,  showing  him  the  hats) : 

Shall  we  try  out  the  lard, — or — it  depends   .    .    . 

A  hare-stew?  .   .   . 
Cyrano  {taking  the  sword  on  which  the  hats  are  impaled,  and 
with  a  flourish  and  a  salute  letting  them  slide  off  at  the 
feet  of  the  Count  of  Guiche)  : 

Pray,  return  them  to  your  friends. 
Guiche   {rising  and  calling  angrily)  : 

My  porter  and  my  chair,  at  once.     1  wish 

To  ride.     (To  Cyrano,  violently) 

You,  sir   .    .    . 
A  Voice  {in  the  street,  calling)  :  Chair  for  my  lord,  the  Count 

of  Guiche. 
Guiche  {who  has  mastered  himself,  smiling)  : 

Have  you  read  Don  Quixote? 
Cyrano:  I  make  that  claim, 

And  stand  uncovered  at  the  mad  knight's  name. 
Guiche:  Then  meditate  upon   .    .    . 
A  Porter  {at  the  door)  :   Your  chair   .    .    . 
Guiche:  The  scene 

That  tells  of  wind-mills,  sir. 
Cyrano:  Chapter  thirteen. 

Guiche:   When  one  attacks  them,  one  may  alwajs  find   .    .    . 
Cyrano:    One  has  a  foe  that  veers  with  every  wind? 
Guiche:   That  wind-mills  have  long  arms  and  may  make  scars, 

Thrusting  you  to  the  mire. 
Cyrano:  Or  to  the  stars! 

{The  Count  of  Guiche  goes  out.  He  is  seen  mounting 
his  chair.  The  gentlemen  go  out,  zvhispering.  Le  Bret 
escorts  them.     The  crowd  melts  away.) 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  269 

SCENE  VIII 
Cyraxo,  Le  Bret,   The  Cadets  tvho  have  taken   places  at   the 
tables  on  both  sides  of  the  room  and  are  ordering  food  and 
wine. 

Cyrano  {mockingly  saluting  those  who  go  out  without  daring  to 

look  toward  him)  :  Gentlemen    .    .    .  Gentlemen    .    .    . 
Le  Bret  {desolated,  coming  back  to  CvRAXo,  his  arms  uplifted  to 

heaven)  :    So  richly  clad    .    .    . 
Cyrano:   Ah,  thou.    Thou'rt  going  to  scold. 
LeBret:  It  is  so  mad! 

Some  men  woo  Fortune, — you  assassinate. 

Exaggeration ! 
Cyrano:  I  exaggerate. 

Le  Bret  {triumphantly):   Ah! 
Cyrano:   On  principle.    And  for  a  good  example, 

I  find  exaggeration  none  too  ample. 
Le  Bret:   Ah,  leave  this  pose  of  musketeer,  my  friend. 

Fortune  and  glory  woo  thee. 
Cyrano:  To  what  end? 

— Find  a  great  patron?     Fawn  on  noble  folk? 

Cling,  as  the  ivy  twines  about  the  oak, 

And  feeding  on  its  bark,  creeps  up  at  length? 

To  crawl  by  cunning,  not  to  rise  by  strength? 

I  thank  you,  no !     Inscribe,  as  rhymster  do 

Verses  to  financiers?     Crack  jokes  to  woo 

To  lips  of  ministers  a  passing  smile, — 

Half  fearing  it  is  sinister,  the  while? 

I  thank  you,  no!    To  eat  toad  every  day? 

Crawl  on  your  belly  till  it's  thin?     And  praj^ 

Shall  one's  skin  first  grow  dirty  at  the  knees? 

One's  back  grow  hooped,  bending  with  fatal  ease? 

I  thank  you,  no!     Sit  always  on  the  fence. 

Lest  this  or  that  side  give  the  great  offense? 

Howl  always  with  the  pack?     Still  live  afeard 

Swinging  your  censer  always  in  some  beard? 

I  thank  you,  no!     Tread  spindles  in  a  coop? 

Become  a  big  man  in  a  little  group? 


270  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Paddle  in  ponds, — the  oar  a  madrigal, 

And  spinsters'  sighs  to  swell  the  sails  withal? 

I  thank  you,  no !    To  the  good  Sercy  go 

And  pay  him  if  he  publish?     Thank  you,  no! 

To  be  named  pope  by  that  convention's  will 

Whose  every  bishop  is  an  imbecile? 

I  thank  you,  no! 

— Strive  still  that  none  outrank  you, 

Not  striving  to  perfect  your  work?     I  thank  you, 

No!     Discover  talent  only  where  it  lacks? 

Be  terrorized  by  pamphleteer  attacks? 

To  have  ambition,  thus, — "If  only  I 

Can  hope  for  mention  in  the  Mercury"? 

I  thank  you,  no!     Seek  still  to  serve  the  time, 

And  make  a  visit  rather  than  a  rhyme? 

To  frame  petitions  asking — anything? 

I  thank  you,  no !     I  thank  you,  no ! 

But,  .   .   .  sing, 
Dream,  laugh,  and  wander — be  alone  and  free. 
— A  voice  that  vibrates;  eyes  that  clearly  see, — 
To  set  your  hat  awry  if  so  you'd  don  it; 
For  yes,  or  no,  to  fight, — or  make  a  sonnet ! 
Careless  of  fame  to  do  one's  work,  and  soon 
To  make  that  long-dreamed  journey  to  the  moon! 
Only  to  write  what  in  your  heart  began. 
Modest,  to  tell  yourself,  "My  little  man 
Be  satisfied  with  fruit,  flowers,  leaves  or  stem, 
If  in  your  garden, — yours, — you  gather  them." 
Then  if,  perchance,  a  little  triumph  come, 
There  is  no  tribute  to  be  paid  at  Rome. 
Wrought  in  your  soul  let  all  your  merit  be. 
Be  not  the  ivy.     Be  yourself,  the  tree. 
What  though  no  oak,  no  linden,  there  is  grown. 
To  rise, — not  high,  perhaps, — but  rise  alone! 
Le  Bret:  Alone,  but  not  against  all.    Why  the  devil 
Have  you  this  mania  just  to  seem  uncivil? 
Make  always  enemies,  without  an  end? 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  271 

Cyrano:    I  see  you  make  so  many  friends,  my  friend! 

I  tread  more  freely  where  salutes  are  fewer, 

And  a  new  foeman  makes  me  feel  secure. 
Le  Bret:   What  folly! 
Cyrano:  'Tis  my  weakness,     I  have  stated 

I  please  to  displease;  love  to  be  well  hated. 

One  walks  so  freely,  in  such  cheerful  guise, 

Under  a  fusillade  of  angry  eyes. 

I  like  my  doublet  doubly  to  adorn 

With  angry  glances  and  with  upstart's  scorn. 

You  with  your  friends  remind  me  past  belief 

Of  one  enswathed  in  a  soft  neckerchief, 

Rich  with  Italian  lace.     One's  head  must  be 

At  ease  therein, — but  held  less  loftily. 

The  brow  that's  not  compelled  and  lifted  high, 

May  lean  too  low;  the  neck  may  bend,  awry. 

For  me,  my  Hate  makes,  many  a  time  and  oft, 

A  full  starched  ruff  that  holds  my  head  aloft; 

New  enemies  make  fresh  frills  every  day, 

A  new  discomfort  and  an  added  ray, 

Till,  a  great  Spanish  ruff,  one  sees  the  whole, 

A  band  of  iron, — but  an  aureole! 
Le  Bret  (after  a  pause,  putting  his  arm  through  his  friend's  arm)  : 

Be  proud  and  fierce  to  others.     'Twill  not  move  me. 

To  me,  say  simply  this:  "She  does  not  love  me." 
Cyrano  (sharply):   Be  still! 

(A  moment  before.  Christian  has  entered.  He  mingles  with 
the  Cadets.  None  of  them  speak  a  ivord  to  him.  At  last 
he  sits  down  alone  at  a  little  table,  and  LiSE  serves  him.) 

SCENE  IX 
Cyrano,  Le  Bret,  The  Cadets,  Christian  of  Neuvillette 

A  Cadet  (seated  at  a  table,  centre,  back,  glass  in  hand)  : 

Ho,  Cyrano ! 

(Cyrano  turns)  Your  story. 
Cyrano:  In  good  time. 


272  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

{He  goes  up,  arm-in-arm  with  Le  Bret.     They  talk  in  low 
tones.) 
The  Cadet   {rising  and  coming  down)  : 

'Twill  be  a  lesson  useful  as  sublime  .   .   . 
A  lesson   {He  stops  near  the  table  at  which  Christian  is 
seated)  an  apprentice  best  learn  quickly. 
Christiax  {raising  his  head)  :   Apprentice? 
Another:  Sickly  Northerner  .    .    . 
Christian  :  Eh  ?    Sickly  ? 

First  Cadet  {jeeringly)  :    My  lord  of  Neuvillette,  you  shall  be 
coached. 
One  subject  in  our  ranks  is  never  broached. 
In  his  home  who  was  hung  let  none  say,  "Rope." 
Christian:    What  mean  you? 

Another  Cadet  {in  a  menacing  voice,  laying  his  finger  mysteri- 
ously aside  of  his  nose)  :  Look.  {He  repeats  the  gesture 
thrice.)  You  understand,  I  hope. 

Christian:  Oh  .  .  .  it's  ... 
Another:    Pst!  .    .    .  The  word  is  never  spoken. 

{He  points   to    Cyrano,   ivho   is   in   conversation   with    Le 
Bret.)     Else,  someone's  sword  and  head  alike  were  broken. 
Another    {who,   while    Christian    talked    to    the    others,    has 
slipped  up  behind  him  in  his  place  at  the  table)  '. 
Two  men  w^ho  whined  were  killed  as  dead  as  Moses, 
— They  made  him  angry,  talking  through  their  noses. 
Another  {in  a  sepulchral  voice,  appearing  from  under  the  table, 
where  he  has  crawled  on  all  fours)  '. 
None  makes,  who  lives  to  see  a  ripe  old  age. 
The  least  allusion  to  that  cartilage. 
Another  {putting  his  hand  on  Christian's  shoulder)  : 
A  word   .    .    .   nay,  but  a  gesture.    'Tis  avowed 
A  handkerchief  drawn  out  may  prove  a  shroud. 
{Silence.     All  with  folded  arms  sit  in  a  circle  around  him, 
staring  and  saying  nothing.     He  rises  and  goes  to  Carbon 
of  Castel-Jaloux,  who,  talking  to  a  fellow  officer,  appears 
to  have  noticed  none  of  this.) 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  27  i 

Christian:    Captain   .    .    . 

Carbon   {turning  and  surveying  him  from  head  to  heels)  :    Sir? 

Christian:  What's  done,  sir,  if  one  find 

Some  Southerners  too  boastful? 
Carbon:  If  inclined 

One  proves  the  North  may  have  its  share  of  glory. 

{He  turns  his  back.) 
Christian  :    I  thank  you. 
First  Cadet  {to  Cyrano)  :   Thy  story,  now. 
All:    His  story! 
Cyrano    {coming  dozen)  :    Ah,   my  story? 

{All  bring   their  stools  and  group   themselves  around  him. 
Christian  sits  astride  a  chair.) 

Ah,  well,  I  marched  alone  to  the  Nesle  hatch. 

The  moon  above  shone  like  a  silvern  watch, 

When  some  celestial  watch-maker,  with  care. 

Wrapped  it  in  fleecy  cloths,  and  left  me  there, 

Its  silver  case  thus  wholly  hid  from  sif^ht. 

In  the  black  darkness  of  a  moonless  night. 

The  wharves  unlighted  stood  in  pitchy  rows. 

'Sdeath,  one  couldn't  see  beyond 
Christian:  His  nose. 

{Silence.     Every  one  gets  up  slowly.     They  look  at  Cyrano, 
aghast.     He  has  stopped,  transfixed.     A  pause.) 
Cyrano:    Who  is  that  fellow? 
A  Cadet  {in  a  choking  u-hisper)  :    He  is  one  who  came 

This  morning. 
Cyrano  {taking  a  step  tozvard  Christian)  :    This  morning? 
First  Cadet  {to  Cyrano)  :   Thy  story,  now. 

Is  Baron  of  Neuvil    .    .    . 
Cyrano   {suddenly  restraining  himself)  :    Ah,  very  well    .    .    . 

{He  turns  pale,  then  red,  starts  to  hurl  himself  upon  CHRIS- 
TIAN, then  masters  himself .  and  in  a  toneless  voice)  : 

I  mean  .    .    . 

{He  takes  up  his  story)  As  I  was  saying   .    .    . 

{In  a  suddenly  fierce  voice)   'Sdeath !   .    .    . 


274  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

(Then  in  an  ordinary  voice)  Nothing  could  be  seen. 

(Stupefaction.    They  all  sit  down,  furtively  looking  at  one 
another.)     I  marched  on,  thinking,  "For  a  worthless  wight 

I  have  offended  some  great  prince  or  knight 

Who  will  surely  have  me   .    .    . 
Christian  :  By  the  nose. 

(Everybody  starts  up.     Christian  balances  himself  on  his 
chair. ) 
Cyrano  (in  a  strangled  voice)  :  Between  his  teeth,   .    .    . 

Have  me  between  his  teeth.  .    .    .  that  so,  beneath 

That  clouded  moon,  I'd  thrust  .    .    . 
Christian:  Your  nose. 

Cyrano:  My  fingers  .   .   .  'twixt  the  bark  and  tree. 

That  great  one  well  may  crush  a  man  like  me   .    .    . 

At  least  might  pinch 
Christian  :  Your  nose. 

Cyrano  (wiping  the  sweat  from  his  forehead)  :  My  prying  fingers. 

But  added,  "Forward!     For  no  Gascon  lingers 

When  duty  calls.     Forward  Cyrano  goes!" 

When  from  the  shadow  someone 
Christian  :  Punched  your  nose. 

Cyrano:    I  parried, — found  myself  set  .    -    . 
Christian  :  Nose  to  nose   .    .    . 

Cyrano   (making  a  bound  toward  him):    'Odsbody! 

(All  the  Gascons  crowd  forward  to  see.     At  Christian's 
side^  Cyrano  checks  himself,  and  takes  up  his  story)  : 
.    .    .    On  by  five  score  drunken  foes, 

Who  stank   .    .    . 
Christian  :  A  noscfull. 

Cyrano   (white  and  smiling)  :    Garlic  and  litharge. 

I  hurled  myself   .    .    . 
Christian  :  Nose  to  the  wind. 

Cyrano:  I  charge! 

I  ripped  two  open, — put  a  third  to  rout; 

One  lunged.     I  parried.     Paf. 
Christian:  Pif!    On  the  snout. 


CYRANO  OF  BERG ER AC  275 

Cyrano  {leaplny  up):    Now,  thunder!     Clear  tlic  room. 

{All  the  Cadets  rush  pell-mell  for  the  doors.) 
First  Cadet  :  The  tiger  wakes ! 

Second  Cadet:   We'll  find  mincemeat. 
Ragueneau:   Huh? 
Another  Cadet:    For  your  smallest  pie. 
Ragueneau:    Fm  white  and  crumpled  as  a  napkin, — aye. 

And  not  as  starchy. 
Carbon  :  Everybody  come. 

Another:    He  isn't  going  to  leave  the  smallest  crumb. 
Another:    FU  die  of  fright.     Hey!  Help!  Somebody  brace  me! 
Another  {closing  the  door  on  the  right)  : 
There'll  be  a  scene  of  horror. 

{They  all  go  out,  by  the  door  at  the  back  or  the  one  on  the 
right.  Some  have  disappeared  by  the  stairway.  Cyrano 
and  Christian  stand  face  to  face  and  look  at  each  other 
for  a  moment.) 

SCENE  X 

Cyrano,  Christian 

Cyrano:  My  boy,  embrace  me. 

Christian:  Sir  .    .    . 

Cyrano:  Brave. 

Christian:  Ah,  that!    But   .    .    . 

Cyrano:  Brave  beyond  another. 

Christian:   You  speak  thus? 

Cyrano  :  Boy,  embrace  me.     I  am  her  brother. 

Christian:  Whose? 

Cyrano:  But   .    .    .   hers! 

Christian:    Hers? 

Cyrano  :  Roxane's. 

Christian  {running  to  him)  :    In  Heaven's  name! 

Her  brother? 
Cyrano:  Fraternal  cousin, — just  the  same. 

Christian:    She  told  you  .    .    .    ? 
Cyrano:  All. 


276  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Christian  :  She  loves  me  ? 

Cyrano  :  As  I  show  you. 

Christian  {seizing  his  hand)  :  O,  Sir  .  .  .  O,  Sir  .  .   .  I'm  very 

glad  to  know  5'ou! 
Cyrano  :  A  sudden  sentiment. 
Christian:  Sir   .    .    .   I  am  full 

Of  shame. 
Cyrano  {looking  at  him  and  putting  his  hand  on  his  shoulder)  : 

'Tis  true.    The  rascal's  beautiful. 
Christian:   Sir,  I  admire  you,  oh,  so  much.   .    .    .   Good  lack! 
Cyrano:    But  all  those  noses? 

Christian:  Oh,  I  take  them  back! 

Cyrano:   Roxane  awaits  a  letter. 
Christian:  Lackaday! 

Cyrano:  How  now? 

Christian  :    I  am  undone  if  I  must  frame  my  vow. 

I  am  such  a  dullard  that  I  die  of  shame. 
Cyrano:    Thou  didst  attack  me  with  right  good  acclaim. 

He  was  no  fool  that  made  that  sharp  attack. 
Christian  :  Bah !    When  a  man  can  fight,  words  do  not  lack. 

With  men  and  soldiers,  facile  words  may  come. 

With  ladies  I  am  ever  dull  and  dumb. 

Oh,  when  I  pass  their  eyes  are  always  kind    .    .    . 
Cyrano  :   And  if  you  tarry,  gentler  hearts  you  find  ? 
Christian:    Nay,  for  I  am  of  those, — I  know  and  grieve, — 

Who  cannot  speak  of  love. 
Cyrano:  Taith,  I  believe 

If  heavenly  powers  had  modelled  me  more  fit, 

I  am  of  those  who  well  could  speak  of  it. 
Christian:    Oh,  to  be  one  whose  words  have  wit  and  grace! 
Cyrano:    To  win  soft  glances  for  a  comely  face! 
Christian  :    Roxane  is  Euphuistic,  wise  and  fine. 

She  will  be  disillusioned. 
Cyrano:  Were  it  mine 

On  such  a  subject  freely  to  expend  it   .    .    . 
Christian:    I  lack  but  eloquence. 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  277 

Cyrano  {abruptly)  :  And  I  will  lend  it! 

Thou  wilt  supply  the  beauty :  by  this  chance, 

We'll  make,  we  two,  a  hero  of  romance! 
Christian:   What? 
Cyrano:  Canst  thou  learn  by  heart  in  verse  or  prose 

What  every  day  I'll  teach? 
Christian  :  Dost  thou  propose  .    .    . 

Cyrano:   That  nothing  ever  disappoint  Roxane! 

Consent  that  we  together  try  this  plan. 

Wilt  thou  feel  pass  from  my  hufi  doublet's  fold 

To  thy  gay  doublet  all  my  heart  may  hold? 
Christian  :   But  Cyrano   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Choose,  Christian! 

Christian:  Oh,  I  fear! 

Cyrano:   Thou  fearest,  left  alone,  to  chill  thy  dear. 

Wilt  thou, — Ah,  soon  to  win  her  sweet  embraces, — 

That  we  collaborate, — thy  lips,  my  phrases? 
Christian  :  Thine  eyes  burn   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Wilt  thou? 

Christian  :  Can  a  man  refuse  thee  ? 

'Twould  give  thee  pleasure? 
Cyrano  (fervently)  :  It  .    .    .  would   .    .    . 

{Recalling  himself  and  speaking  as  an  artist)  : 

would  amuse  me! 

'Tis  an  experiment  in  artistry. 

Wilt  thou  complete,  me, — I  fulfilling  thee? 

Thou'lt  walk  and  in  the  shadow  I  will  press: 

I'll  be  thy  wit,  and  thou,  my  comeliness. 
Christian:   But,  oh,  the  letter!     Would  she  find  it  better, 

Fair  spoken  words,  ill-written? 
Cyrano    {taking  from   his  doublet  the   letter  he   has  luritten)  : 

Here's  thy  letter. 
Christian:   What's  this? 

Cyrano:  It  only  waits  to  be  addressed. 

Christian  :  I  .   .   . 


278  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano:    Send  it.     Send  it.     Put  thy  mind  at  rest. 

'Tis  a  good  letter. 
Christian  :   You  have  had  ?  .    .    . 
Cyrano:  We  have — no  poet  waits 

Till  Chloris  comes — in  pouches  and  in  pates, 

Love  letters.     Poets'  sweethearts  are  but  gleams. 

We  blow  soap  bubbles  for  a  maid  o'  dreams. 

Take  it,  and  change  my  dream  to  verity. 

Tossed  at  a  venture,  idle  vows  and  free, 

Thou'lt  find  a  nest  for  all  these  errant  birds. 

Thou'lt  see, — nay,  take  the  letter, — all  my  words 

— Take  it, — are  eloquent,  as  insincere. 

Take  it  and  let's  ha'  done ! 
Christian  :  But  to  appear 

'Twas  writ  for  her  .    .    .  some  changes  might  improve  .    .   . 

Will  it  fit  Roxane? 
Cyrano:  'Twill  fit  her  like  a  glove! 

Christian:    But  .    .    . 
Cyrano:    Self  love  is  credulous.     Make  no  demur. 

Roxane  will  think  the  letter  writ  for  her. 
Christian    {throiving  himself  into  Cyrano's  arms) :    Ah,  my 
friend!     {They  embrace.) 

SCENE  XI 
Cyrano,  Christian,  The  Gascons,  The  Trooper,  Lise 

A  Cadet  {opening  the  door  a  crack)  : 

No  sound.    All  still  as  death.    The  latch  I'll  clutch   .    .    . 

I  dare  not  look.     {He  pokes  his  head  in.)     Hein? 
All  the  Cadets  {entering  and  seeing  Cyrano  and  Christian 

locked  in  an  embrace)  :  Ah  .    .    .  Oh  .    .    .  Oh! 

A  Cadet:  This  is  too  much. 

The  Trooper:   Ah-ah! 
Carbon:    Our  demon  mork  as  any  saint-apostlc? 

Smite  him  on  one,  he  turns  the  otlicr  nostril? 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  279 

The  Trooper:    Now  one  can  talk  about  his  nose,  surmising 

His  spirit  broken? 

{Calling  to  LiSE,  with  a  swaggering  air)  :    Watch  me! 

(He  sniffs  the  air,  affectedly)  :    How  surprising    .    .    . 

This  smell  of  spice. 

(He  goes  up  to  Cyrano.)      Vou  smelt  it,  sir,  you  said — 

This  spicy  smell?     What  is  it? 
Cyrano  (buffeting  him)  :  It's  clove  head! 

(Joy.      The   Cadets   have  found  the  lost   Cyrano.     They 
turn  handsprings. 

(  Curtain  ) 


ACT  III 
Roxane's  Kiss 

A  little  square  in  the  old  Marais.  Old  houses;  a  glimpse  of 
narrow  streets.  Right,  Roxane's  home  and  the  wall  of  her  gar- 
den, tall  shrubbery  reaching  above  it.  Above  the  door,  a  balcony 
and  a  window.    Beside  the  door,  a  bench. 

Ivy  clings  to  the  walls;  jessamine  engarlands  the  balcony  and 
cascades  from  its  railing. 

With  the  aid  of  the  bench  and  the  jutting  stones  of  the  wall, 
one  can  easily  climb  to  the  balcony. 

Opposite,  an  old  house  of  the  same  style,  brick  and  stone,  with 
a  massive  entrance  door.  The  knocker  is  swathed  in  linen,  like 
a  sore  thumb. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  the  duenna  is  discovered,  sitting  on  the 
bench.  Above,  the  ivindow  on  Roxane's  balcony  is  open.  Near 
the  duenna  stands  Ragueneau,  dressed  in  livery  of  a  sort.  He 
is  finishing  a  story,  wiping  his  eyes  the  while. 

SCENE  I 

Ragueneau,  the  Duenna;  later,  Roxane,  Cyrano,  and  two 

pages 

Ragueneau  :   She  left  me, — for  a  trooper.    Life  was  worth 

Nothing.     I  hung  myself.     I  quit  the  earth. 

My  lord  Cyrano  found  me  so   .    .    .   dependent, 

And  got  this  place  for  me  as  superintendent 

To  his  fair  cousin. 
The  Duenna:  But  what  wrought  this  ruin? 

Ragueneau:    Soldiers  and  poets  were  the  shop's  undoin'! 

Mars  ate  some  cakes;  Apollo  cleared  the  plate; 

You  understand  .   .    .  there  wasn't  long  to  wait! 

280 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  281 

The  Duenna  {risuuj  and  cuIUikj  toward  the  open  window)  : 

Readj,  Roxane?    They  wait  us!     Haste,  I  pray! 
Roxane's  Voice  {through  the  window)  :    I  don  my  cape. 
The  Duenna   {to  Ragueneau,  indicating  the  door  across  the 
street)  : 

In  Clomire's  chaste  retreat,  across  the  way. 

We  pore  upon  the  Realm  of  Tenderness. 
Ragueneau:  The  Realm  of  Tender  .  .  . 
The  Duenna:  Of  Pure  Passion,  yes. 

{Calling  once  more.) 

Roxane,  make  haste !     To  dally  in  this  fashion 

May  cost  the  Discourse  on  the  Tender  Passion. 
Voice  OF  Roxane:   Coming! 

{One  hears  the  strumming  of  stringed  instruments  drawing 
near.) 
Voice  of  Cyrano  {singing,  in  the  wings)  :   La,  la,  la,  la! 
The  Duenna  {surprised)  :   They're  singing  for  our  favour. 
Cyrano  {followed  by  two  pages  who  carry  archlutes)  : 

You  three-fold  fool,  'tis  demi-semi-quaver ! 
First  Page  {sarcastically)  :   You  know  then,  sir,  the  quavers  and 

the  scruples? 
Cyrano  :    Music  I  know,  like  all  Gassendi's  pupils. 
The  Page  {playing  and  singing)  :    La,  la! 
Cyrano  {snatching  the  lute  and  taking  up  the  ?neasure)  : 

Enough.     'Tis  I  who  will  repeat. 

La,  la,  la,  la! 
Roxane  {appearing  on  the  balcony)  :   You? 
Cyrano  {singing,  to  the  air  already  begun)  :   I,  who  come  to  greet 

Your  lilies  and  to  bow  before  your  ro    .    .    .   ses! 
Roxane:    I'm  coming  down.     {She  leaves  the  balcony.) 
Duenna:  Who  are  these  virtuosos? 

Cyrano:   They  are  a  wager  won  from  Assoucy. 

— A  point  of  grammar.     "I'll  engage,"  quoth  he, — 

Suddenly  pointing  to  these  lanky  brutes. 

Who  twang  by  trade  their  torture-proof  archlutes, 

His  escort,  always, — "one  whole  day  of  song." 


282  PLJYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

He  lost.     So  at  my  heels  these  two  belong 

Till  Phoebus  takes  anew  his  golden  round. 

Charming  at  first,  it  palls,  as  I  have  found. 

{To  the  Musicians)     Hep!     Go  and  play  for  me  a  grave 
pavane 

For  Montfleury. 

(To  the  Duenna)  I  come  to  ask  Roxane, 

As  every  evening.  ... 

(To  the  Pages,  as  they  ffo  out)    Long   .    .    .    and  off  the  key ! 

(To  the  Duenna)  If  her  beloved  is  all  she'd  have  him  be? 
Roxane  (coming  out  of  the  house)  : 

Beautiful,  gifted, — Oh,  how  I  adore  him! 
Cyrano  (smiling)  :   Gifted  .   .   .  and  wise?  .   .   . 
Roxane:  Even  you  come  not  before  him! 

Cyrano  :   Oh,  I  admit  .   .   . 
Roxane:  No  tongue  so  skilled  to  bring 

The  pretty  nothings  that  are  everything. 

Sometimes  he  hesitates,  his  muse  has  flown, 

Then  lovely  phrases  for  the  lapse  atone. 
Cyrano  (incredulous):   No! 
Roxane:  You  men  are  all  alike!     He  must  be  dull, 

So  you  all  say,  being  so  beautiful! 
Cyrano:    In  facile  fashion  then  the  rascal  prates? 
Roxane:    Prates,  quotha?    Talks?     My  cousin,  he  orates! 
Cyrano:   He  writes? 
Roxane:  Ever  better.    Hear  this  line: 

(Declaiming)    "The  more   thou   takest   my   heart,   the   more 
'tis  mine." 

(Triumphantly,  to  Cyrano)  Ah,  well?  .    .    . 
Cyrano:    Pshaw! 

Roxane:    This  one:    "Since  I  must  ha-ve  a  heart  to  yearn  for 
thee, 

And  thou  hast  mine^  give  thou  thine  own  to  me." 
Cyrano:  Always  too  much,  or  not  enough.     'Tis  curious. 

Just  what  lacks  he,  in  hearts? 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  283 

Roxane:  You  make  me  furious! 

'Tis  jealousy. 
Cyrano    {trenibling)  :    Hein? 
Roxane:  Author's  jealousy. 

This  one: — Could  anything  more  perfect  be? — 

"My  heart  before  you  is  one  longing  cry. 

Ah,  since  my  kisses  in  my  letters  lie, 

Read,  Lady,  with  thy  lips  thy  lover's  letters." 
Cyrano   {smiling  with  satisfaction  in  spite  of  himself)  : 

Aha,  those  lines   .    .    . 

(Recollecting,  disdainfully)  Alliterative  fetters! 
Roxane:   And  this  ,    .    . 

Cyrano  (entranced) :   You  know  these  missives,  then,  by  heart? 
Roxane:   All. 

Cyrano:    I  am  dumb.    You  flatter  well  his  art. 
Roxane:    He  is  a  master. 
Cyrano  (modestly)  :   Oh,  a  .   .   . 
Roxane  (peremptorily)  :       A  master. 
Cyrano:  So  be  it,— master. 

The  Duenna  (who  has  gone  back,  coming  forward  hurriedly)  : 

The  Count  of  Guiche! 

(To  Cyrano,  pushing  him  toward  the  house)  Go  inside. 

Oh,  go  faster. 

He  must  not  find  you  here.     'Twould  be  a  clew   .    .    . 

He  would  guess   .    .    . 
Roxane:  ...   My  secret,  now  so  safe  with  3'ou. 

He  loves  me!     He  has  power!     He  must  not  know! 

He  might  destroy  my  hopes  with  one  fierce  blow! 
Cyrano  (going  into  the  house)  :  Well,  well,  well! 

(The  Count  of  Guiche  appears.) 

SCENE  H 

Roxane,    The   Count   of   Guiche;   at   a   little   distance,   the 

Duenna 

Roxane  (to  the  Count,  making  a  reverence)  :    I  am  going  out. 


284  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Guiche:  I  come  to  say  good-bye. 

Roxane:    You  go  away? 

Guiche:  To  war. 

Roxane:  Ah! 

Guiche:  This  night. 

Roxane  :  '  Ah ! 

Guiche:  I 

Have  orders.    Siege  of  Arras. 
Roxane:  Is  it  so? 

Guiche:   Aye,  and  this  parting  leaves  you  cold  as  snow. 
Roxane:   Oh   .    .    . 
Guiche:    And  me,  heart-broken.     When  shall  we  two  meet? 

I  am  made  commander. 
Roxane  {indifferent)  :   Bravo! 
Guiche:  I  repeat. 

Commander  of  the  Guards. 
Roxane  {arrested) :  The  Guards? 

Guiche:  Where  serves 

Your  braggart  cousin  who  so  well  deserves 

The  vengeance  I  shall  know  how  to  take. 
Roxane  {suffocating)  :  You  meant 

The  Guards  would  go? 
Guiche   {laughing)  :    One  takes  one's  regiment. 
Roxane  {sinking  down  on  the  bench;  aside)  :    Christian! 
Guiche:  What  troubles  you ? 
Roxane  {shaken):  Togo   .    .    .   so  far! 

To  .   .    .  care  .    .    .  and  have  the  dear  one  go  to  war ! 
Guiche  {surprised  and  charmed)  : 

For  the  first  time  you  whisper  words  so  kind, — 

— And  I  must  leave  you! 
Roxane  {her  tone  changes,  she  toys  with  her  fan)  : 

You  .    .    .  you  have  in  mind 

Revenge   .    .    .    ? 
Guiche  {smiling)  :  You  take  your  cousin's  part? 
Roxane:  Nay,  I  oppose. 

Guiche:  You  see  him? 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  285 

Roxane:  Rarely. 

Guiche;  Everywhere  one  goes, 

One  sees  him  with 

{He  tries  to  recall  the  name) 

This  Neuviller  .    .    .   villain   .    .    . 
Roxane:  Tall? 
Guiche:  Blonde. 

Roxane:  Red   .    .    . 

Guiche;  Handsome  .    .    . 

Roxane:  Tut  I 

Guiche:  But  dull. 
Roxane:  That's  plain  .    .    . 

{Changing  her  tone) 

Your  vengeance  'gainst  Cyrano.     You  had  thought 

To  set  him  in  the  forefront?     That  were  naught, 

He  who  loves  fighting.     Find  a  fitter  plan. 
Guiche:   How? 
Roxane:  Take  the  Regiment,  and  leave  this  man 

With  his  cadets,  throughout  the  livelong  war. 

Arms  folded,  here  in  Paris.     Better  far. 

Because  more  subtle,  crueller,  and  stranger, 

To  punish  him,  deprive  him,  Sir,  of  danger! 
Guiche:    O,  woman,  woman!     Cruel,  aye,  and  droll. 

A  woman's  trick. 
Roxane  :  He  would  eat  out  his  soul. 

His  friends  would  gnaw  their  fingers.    Yes,  and  you 

Would  be  avenged ! 
Guiche  {drawing  closer)  :    You  care,  then?     Is  it  true? 

You  espouse  my  cause.     Roxane,  I  wish  to  prove 

It  is  for  love   .    ,    . 
Roxane:  It  is  .    .    .   it  is  .    .    .   for  love. 

Guiche  {shoiuing  some  sealed  papers) : 

I  have  the  orders  here,  to  be  transmitted 

Without  delay.     But  one  shall  be  omitted. 

{He  detaches  one.)     This  .    .    .  this  of  the  Cadets. 

{He  puts  it  in  his  pocket.)     I'll  keep  it  safe. 


286  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Ah,  how  the  boaster,  Cyrano,  will  chafe! 

You  play  such  pranks,  even  you? 
Roxane:  Sometimes  one  falls, 

Being  tempted! 
Guiche:  I  am  mad!     My  duty  calls, — 

But — go  when  you  are  yielding? — Listen  well   .    .    . 

Hard  by,  the  good  Capuchin  brothers  dwell; 

Fra  Athanasius  is  the  Abbot.    There, 

No  layman  is  admitted.    Yet  I'll  swear 

They'll  find  a  way  to  hide  me  in  their  sleeves. 

They  have  not  quite  forgotten,  one  believes, 

One  is  nephew  of  one's  uncle  at  the  least, — 

And  Richelieu's  shadow  may  affright  a  priest. 

They'll  think  me  gone.     Masked,  I  will  come.    Ah,  pray. 

Lady  Caprice,  let  me  but  wait  one  day! 
Roxane  :   If  it  leaked  out !  .   .   .  Your  glory,  .   .   . 
Guiche:   Pah! 
Roxane:  Your  vow! 

The  siege! 
Guiche:  Forgot!     Pray  you   .    .    . 

Roxane:  No,  no! 

Guiche:  Pray  .   .   .  thou! 

Roxane  (tenderly):   I  must  forbid! 
Guiche:   Ah! 
Roxane:  Go! 

(Aside)  And  Christian  stays  with  me. 

(Aloud)  I  bid  you  be  my  hero   .    .    ,   Anthony! 
Guiche:   Celestial  sound!     Then  you  love  him  .   .   . 
Roxane:   For  whom  I  fear! 
Guiche  (transported,  kisses  her  hand):    I  go!   .    .    . 

Are  you  content? 
Roxane:  Oh,  yes  .  .  .  my  dear! 

(He  goes  out.) 
The  Duenna  {curtseying  derisively,  behind  his  back)  : 

Oh,  yes,  my  dear! 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  287 

RoxANE  (to  tlic  Duenna):    'Sli!    Not  a  word,    fie  would  owe 
me  much  despite. 
I  have  robbed  Cyrano  of  a  chance  to  fight. 
{She  calls  toward  the  house)  :  Cousin! 

SCENE  III 
RoxANE,  the  Duenna,  Cyrano 

Roxane:   They  wait  us  at  Clomire's.    We  must  not  linger. 

Alcandre  speaks  and    .    .    . 
The  Duenna   {putting  her  finger  in  her  ear)  : 

And  my  little  finger 

Says  we  will  miss  it. 
Cyrano:  Do  not  miss  those  .    .    .   apes. 

The  Duenna  {entranced) : 

Behold  the  knocker,  which  fair  linen  drapes. 

{To  the  knocker.) 

One  sees  you  shrouded  lest  your  careless  clamor 

Trouble  sweet  discourse  with  its  brazen  hammer. 

{She  lifts  it  with  infinite  precaution  and  knocks  softly.) 
Roxane  {seeing  the  door  is  opened)  :   Let  us  go  in. 

{On  the  threshold,  to  Cyrano)  :  If  Christian  come,  of  course 

I  know  that  he  will  wait. 
Cyrano  {hurriedly,  as  she  is  disappearing)  : 

Ah   .    .    .    {She  turns.)     His  discourse. 

As  is  your  wont,  you'll  question  him   .    .    .    ? 
Roxane:  About  .    .    . 

Cyrano  {eagerly)  :  About?   .    .    . 
Roxane:   Cyrano,  you'll  be  dumb? 

Cyrano:  How  can  you  doubt? 

Roxane:  Then   .    .    .    about  nothing.    "Take  free  rein,"  I'll  cry. 

"Improvise!     Speak  of  love!     Be  splendid!     Fly!" 
Cyrano  {smiling)  :   Good. 
Roxane:   'Sh! 
Cyrano:  Whist! 


288  PLJYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Roxane:  Not  a  word. 

(She  enterSj  and  the  door  is  closed.) 
Cyrano  {bowing  low,  as  soon  as  the  door  is  safely  shut)  : 

Thank  you. 

{The  door  opens,  and  Roxane  puts  her  head  out.) 
Roxane  :  Be  dumb, 

Lest  he  prepare! 
Cyrano:  The  devil!     Never! 

The  Two  {speaking  at  once)  :    'Sh! 

{The  door  is  shut.) 
Cyrano  {calling  softly)  :   Ho,  Christian!    Come! 

SCENE  IV 
Cyrano,  Christian 

Cyrano  :   Prepare  thy  memory  to  grave  the  story. 

This  is  the  night  to  win  immortal  glory. 

Don't  look  so  glum.     I  know  the  theme.     Let's  go, — 

Quick !  to  thy  quarters.    Let  me  teach  thee. 
Christian:  No! 

Cyrano:    Hein? 

Christian:  Here  I'll  wait  Roxane. 

Cyrano:  What's  this  dismay ?- 

What  madness?    Come,  prepare ! 
Christian  :  I  won't,  I  say ! 

I'm  tired  of  borrowing  every  word  and  thought. 

Playing  a  role  and  fearing  to  be  caught. 

'Twas  well  at  first.     I  know  she  loves  me  now. 

I  fear  no  more.     I'll  be  myself,  I  vow. 
Cyrano  :   Ah — well — now ! 
Christian  :  Who  said  I  could  not  speak? 

Thou'lt  see,  my  friend,  my  wit  is  not  so  weak. 

Thy  lessons  helped.     Now,  I  know  how  to  tell 

My  story.   .    .    .   And  by  all  tlie  devils  of  hell. 

The  way  to  take  her  in  my  arms  I  know ! 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  289 

{Seeing  Roxane,  ivho  comes  out  of  Clomire's  house.) 
She's  coming!     Oh,  don't  leave  me,  C3'rano! 
Cyrano  {bowing  low)  :    Speak  for  yourself,  Sir. 
{He  disappears  behind  the  garden  wall.) 

SCENE  V 

Christian,  Roxane;  for  a  moment,  the  Duenna 

Roxane    {coming   out   of  Clomire's   house  with   a  fashionable 
group;  there  are  leave-takings,  curtseys,  farewells)  : 

Barthcnoide !     Gremione ! 
The  Duenna   {disconsolate)  :    We  missed  the  Discourse.     Ah, 

I  might  have  known! 
Roxane   {still  saluting  the  Euphuists)  :    Urimedonte.     Farewell. 

{All,  boiuing  to   Roxane,  curtseying,  saluting  one  another, 
go  off  by  different  streets.     RoxANE  sees  Christian.) 
Roxane:   You  came! 

{She  goes  toward  him.)     The  night  is  sweet. 

Wait.    .    .    .   Tliey    have    gone   .    .    .    No    footfall    in    the 
street.    .    .    . 

Let  us  sit  here.     Speak.     I  will  hear   .    .    .   and  dream. 
Christian  {sits  down  near  her  on  the  bench.   A  silence,  then)  : 

I  love  you. 
Roxane  {closing  her  eyes)  :   Speak  of  love. 
Christian  :  I  love  thee. 

Roxane:  'Tis  the  theme. 

Gild  it! 
Christian:  I   .    .    . 
Roxane:  Broider  it! 

Christian:  I  love  thee  so. 

Roxane:    Doubtless.     And  then  .    .    . 
Christian:  And  then  I  want  to  know 

If  you  love  me.     Tell  me,  Roxane. 
Roxane    {pouting)  :  You   seem 

To  give  me  gruel,  when  I  hoped  for  cream. 

Tell  me  a  little  how  you  love  me. 


290  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Christian  :  Much. 

Roxane:    Elaborate  your  love! 

Christian  :  I  want  to  touch  .    .    . 

To  kiss   .    .    .   thy  neck. 
Roxane  :   Christian ! 
Christian:  I  love   .    .    . 

Roxane  {trying  to  rise)  :  Once  more! 

Christian   (eagerly,  restraining  her)  :    Nay,  I  don't  love  .    .    . 
Roxane  (sitting  down  again)  :   That  is  better. 
Christian:  I  adore! 

Roxane  (rising  and  moving  away)  :   Oh! 
Christian  :   I  grow^  dull. 
Roxane:  And  win  my  just  disdain. 

'Twould  please  me  hardly  less  had  you  grown  plain. 
Christian:   But  .    .    . 

Roxane  (severely)  :    Rally  the  eloquence  so  put  to  flight. 
Christian:  I  .    .    . 
Roxane:  I  know,  you  love  me.    Go! 

(She  goes  toward  the  house.) 
Christian  :  Don't  quit  my  sight ! 

I  want  to  say   .    .    . 
Roxane   (her  hand  on  the  latch)  :    That  you  adore  me?     Yes. 

Leave  me ! 
Christian:   But  I   .    .    . 

(She  goes  in  and  shuts  the  door  in  his  face.) 
Cyrano  (who  has  come  hack  and  stands  for  a  moment  unseen)  : 

A  most  pronounced  success. 

SCENE  VI 

Cyrano,  Christian  ;  a  moment,  the  Pages 

Christian:   Succor  me! 

Cyrano  :  No. 

Christian:  I  die,  lest  I  reclaim 

Her  favour,  instantly. 
Cyrano:  I'  the  devil's  name, 

How  shall  I  teach  you,  instantly? 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  291 

Christian  {seizing  his  arm):    Look,  Cyrano! 

{A  light  shines  out  from  Roxane's  chamber.) 
Cyrano  (moved):    Her  window! 
Christian  :  I  shall  die. 

Cyrano  :  You  fool,  speak  low. 

Christian  {whispering):    Shall  die!   .    .    . 

Cyrano:  The  night  is  dark. 

Christian:    Well,  what? 
Cyrano:  'Tis  not  too  late. 

Stand  there,  you  ass,  though  you  deserve  your  fate, 

There,  by  the  balcony.     I'll  hide  beneath, 

And  whisper  thee  thy  words. 
Christian:   But   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Save  thy  breath! 

The  Pages  {reappearing,  present  themselves  to  Cyrano)  :    Hep! 
Cyrano:   Whist! 

{He  signs  to  them  to  speak  softly.) 
First  Page  {whispering)  :    My  lord,  we  gave  the  serenade 

To  Montfleury, 
Cyrano  {hurriedly  and  loiu)  :    Now,  lie  in  ambuscade, 

One  at  this  corner;  one  on  t'other  stay; 

And  if  a  stroller  chance  to  pass  this  way. 

Play  me  an  air. 
Second  Page:  What  air,  Sir  Gassendist? 

Cyrano:    Sad,  for  a  man;  gay,  for  a  lady. 

{The  Pages  vanish,  each  taking  his  station  at  the  corner  of 
the  street.) 
Cyrano  {to  Christian):  Whist! 

Call  her. 
Christian  :    Roxane ! 
Cyrano  {gathering  a  handful  of  pebbles  zvhich  he  tosses  against 

the  ivindoiv)  :    Wait.     These  are  what  we  need. 
Roxane  {half  opening  her  window)  :  Who  called  me? 
Christian  :    I. 
Roxane:  Who  is  I? 

Christian:  Christian. 


292  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

RoXANE  {disdainfully)'.  Indeed? 

Christian  :   I  must  speak  to  you. 

Cyrano  {under  the  balcony,  to  Christian)  : 

Whisper,  man.     Speak  low. 
RoxANE :   Nay,  you  speak  stupidly.    I  bid  you  go. 
Christian  :   Pray  hear  .    .    . 
Roxane:  You  love  no  more. 

Christian  {to  whom  Cyrano  whispers  the  words)  : 

No  more, — just  heaven! — 
I  who  love  always  more! 
Roxane  {who,  going  to  close  the  window,  pauses)  : 

He  is  half  forgiven. 
Christian   {still  repeating  the  words  with  which  Cyrano  sup- 
plies him)  :  Love  sways  my  soul.  Always  new  tremors  start. 
The  imp  has  made  a  cradle  of  my  heart. 
Roxane  {coming  out  on  the  balcony)  : 

Since  Love  is  cruel,  you,  if  you  are  wise, 
Will  kill  him  in  this  cradle  where  he  lies. 
Christian  {same  business)  : 

Nay,  I  have  striven,  but.  Lady,  an'  it  please, 
This  new-born  infant  is  a  Hercules. 
Roxane:  That's  better. 

Christian  {same  business)  :  With  ease  he  strangles, — it  is  truth 
I  tell,— 

The  serpents.  Pride  and  Doubt. 
Roxane:  Nay,  this  is  well. 

{She  leans  on  the  balcony  railing.) 
Why  do  you  hesitate?    Begin,  and  stop? 
Your  spring  of  fancy  trickles,  drop  by  drop. 
Cyrano    {drawing  Christian   under  the  balcony  and  slipping 

into  his  place)  :    'Sh!    This  becomes  too  hard.    .    .    . 
Roxane:  What  is  your  plight? 

Your  words  come  slowly.   Why? 
Cyrano  {speaking  in  a  whisper,  as  Christian  has  done) : 

Because  'tis  night. 
Groping  in  shadow,  they  must  seek  your  ear. 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  293 

Roxane:   Mine  do  not  stumble,  yet  you  seem  to  hear. 
Cyrano:   They  find  their  place  at  once,  because  they  rest, 

Where  I  receive  them  always,  in  my  breast. 

My  heart  is  large.    Your  ear  is  very  small. 

Beside,  your  words  descend.     They  quickly  fall, — 

But  mine  must  mount,  my  Lady.    That  is  slow. 
Roxane:   They  climbed  not  half  so  well,  a  while  ago. 
Cyrano:    In  these  gymnastics,  they  have  gained  some  skill. 
Roxane:    My  voice  falls  from  a  height. 
Cyrano:  A  height  to  kill 

A  listening  lover  if,  thus  set  apart, 

You  let  a  harsh  word  fall  upon  his  heart. 
Roxane  {moving)  :   I  am  coming  down. 
Cyrano  {earnestly)  :   No. 
Roxane  {shoiL'ing  the  bench  beneath  the  balcony)  : 

Climb  on  the  settle,  then. 
Cyrano   {starting  back,  trembling,  in  the  darkness)  :    No. 
Roxane:   How  .    .    .No? 
Cyrano  {more  and  more  carried  away  by  emotion)  : 

Oh,  let  me  have  it, — sweet  beyond  thy  ken, — 

This  hour  when  I  may  speak  the  truth  I  w^en, — 

Pour  out  my  pent-up  love,  unseen. 
Roxane:  Unseen? 

Cyrano  :  Yes.    It  is  heaven.    Dimly  one  devines. 

You  see  my  mantle  but  as  shadowy  lines. 

I  see  your  summer  gown,  a  gleam  of  white. 

I  am  a  shadow.     You  are  living  light. 

You  know  not  what  it  means  to  me,  this  hour. 

Have  I  been  eloquent? 
Roxane:  You  had  that  dower! 

Cyrano:    My  speech  has  never  flowed,  as  now  it  flows 

From  my  full  heart. 
Roxane:   Why? 
Cyrano:  Why?    I  must  oppose 

My  words  against  a  peril.  • 

Roxane:  What? 


294  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano:  The  dizziness 

Of  those  who  look  in  your  deep  eyes.     I  bless 

This  darkness  whence  I  speak  to  you  alone 

For  the  first  time! 
RoXANE :  And  with  a  strange,  new  tone. 

Cyrano  {coming  nearer,  passionately)  : 

A  new  tone?    Yes.     For  in  the  dark  delaying, 

I  dare  to  be  myself. 

{He  stops  and  with  bewilderment.)     What  am  I  saying? 

I  do  not  know.     Forgive !     To  speak  to  you 

Is  so  delicious,  and  for  me  so  new. 
Roxane:    So  new? 
Cyrano  {overwhelmed,  trying  to  recapture  his  words)  : 

So  new   .    .    .   but  yes !    To  be  sincere, 

Not  fearing  mockery, — that  damned  fear! 
Roxane  :    Mockery  ? 
Cyrano:  Yes,  for  my  heart's  leaping  flame. 

I  clothed  myself  in  robes  of  wit,  for  shame. 

I  reach,  to  touch  the  stars,  but,  'neath  the  power 

Of  mockery,  I  stoop, — and  pluck  a  flower! 
Roxane:    Flowers  in  the  grass,  and  flowers  of  speech,  are  sweet. 
Cyrano:   To-night,  we  will  trample  both  beneath  our  feet. 

Quivers  and  arrows,  links,  and  such  like  toys 

We'll  toss  them  to  the  winds  of  fresher  joys 

Dull  is  the  water — though  the  deed  be  nimble, — 

Drunk,  softly  sipping,  from  a  lady's  thimble. 

Ah,  let  the  soul  be  free,  speed  on  its  course, 

And  quench  its  craving  at  the  fountain's  source! 
Roxane:   Your  intellect   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Found  favour  in  your  sight 

In  the  beginning.     'Twould  affront  this  night, — 

This  hour,  these  perfumes,  Nature's  very  self! — 

To  prate  like  pretty  books  from  Voiture's  shelf 

— Ah,  let  the  sky  with  its  clear  star-bright  eyes 

Shine  in  our  hearts,  rid  them  of  all  disguise. 

I  fear  lest  euphuistic  alchemists 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  295 

Let  all  true  sentiment  be  lost  in  mists; 

Lest  in  its  crucible,  the  dross  should  shine, — 

And  fining  leave  the  fine  less  fine,  in  fine! 
Roxane:    But  intellect   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  In  love  it  is  a  crime! 

Fencing  and  parrying  with  things  sublime! 

The  moment  comes, — inevitably  comes, — 

Woe  to  the  heart  that  never  thus  succumbs! — 

When  in  the  soul  a  flame  so  pure  arises 

That  every  well-turned  phrase  the  heart  despises. 
Roxane:   Ah,  well,  if  that  time  come  to  us,  disclose 

What  words  you  would  have  for  mc. 
Cyrano:  All  those,  all  those,  all  those 

That  come  to  me,  I'll  toss  them  at  your  feet, — 

Not  bind  them  in  a  nosegay!     O,  my  sweet, 

I  suffocate!    I  love  thee,  Ah,  so  well! 

Thy  name  at  my  heart's  gate  is  like  a  bell. 

And  all  the  time,  Roxane,  as  that  heart  beats, 

That  swaying  bell  thy  lovely  name  repeats. 

Dear,  I  remember  all  you  do  or  say. 

A  year  ago.  one  morn,  the  twelfth  of  May, 

You  changed  the  way  you  dress  your  shining  hair. 

Its  blondness  makes  the  day  I  see  it  fair. 

One  who  has  faced  the  sun  with  fearless  gaze 

Sees  every^vhere  the  orb's  vermillion  raj'S, — 

So,  when  I  see  thy  hair,  agleam  and  curled, 

A  golden  blur  bedazzles  all  my  world ! 
Roxane  {in  a  troubled  voice)  : 

Yes,  this  is  truly  love. 
Cyrano:  Certes,  this  feeling. 

Jealous  and  terrible  and  all-revealing 

Is  love.     It  has  the  sadness  and  the  might 

Of  love.     Yet  selfless.     Self  drops  out  of  sight. 

For  thy  least  good  I  would  give  all  my  own ; — 

Aye,  though  thou  knewst  it  not, — content  alone 

If  some  day,  from  afar,  I  heard  arise 


296  PLAYS  OF  ED  MONO  ROSTAND 

Thy  lovely  laughter  from  my  sacrifice. 

Thy  glances  fire  me  holier  heights  to  win, 

New  valor,  higher  truths.     Dost  thou  begin 

To  comprehend  my  love?    Ah,  canst  thou  mark 

How  my  soul  reaches  .   .   .  reaches  .   .   .  through  the  dark? 

Truly  this  evening  is  too  fair,  too  sweet! 

I  speak,  you  listen,  and  our  spirits  meet. 

It  is  too  much.     My  hopes  leapt  not  so  high, — 

Not  in  my  maddest  moments.    Let  me  die! 

My  life  is  perfected!     My  spoken  word 

Has  made  you  tremble  like  a  swaying  bird 

Among  the  boughs, — a  leaf  among  the  leaves. 

For  thou  dost  tremble!     Lo,  my  heart  perceives 

The  trembling  of  thy  white  hand  on  the  vine. 

The  jasmine  bears  it.     See,  it  reaches  mine! 

(He  kisses  passionately  the  tips  of  one  of  the  swaying  sprays 
of  jasmine.) 
Roxane:   I  tremble,  yes,  and  weep,  and  catch  my  breath, 

And  love  thee,  and  am  thine. 
Cyrano:  Then,  come,  sweet  death! 

This  pure  intoxication, — I  wrought  this! 

I  ask  but  one  thing  more  of  life    .    .    . 
Christian  (under  the  balcony)  :   A  kiss! 
Roxane  (retreating)  :   What? 
Cyrano :  Oh ! 

Roxane:  You  ask  .    .    . 

Cyrano:  Yes,  I  .   .   . 

(To  Christian)  Thou  goest  too  fast. 

Christian:    She  is  moved.     I'll  profit  while  the  mood  shall  last. 
Cyrano  (to  Roxane)  :  Yes,  .  .  «  I  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  plead  .  .  .  because 
you  seemed  so  gracious. 

God  knows,  I  know  I  have  been  too  audacious. 
Roxane  (a  little  chilled)  :  Then  you  do  not  insist? 
Cyrano:  Yea,  I  insist, 

Insisting  not.  .    .    .  Your  shyness  would  resist  .    .   . 

And  yet  .    .    .   this  kiss.  .    .    .   Refuse,  refuse  it,  dear! 


CYRANO  OF  BERGEUAC  297 

Christian  {to  Cyrano,  twitching  his  cloak):   Why?     Why? 
Cyrano  {to  Christian)  :  Thou,  be  still,  Christian. 
RoxANE  {leaning  from  her  balcony)  :    What?     I  cannot  hear. 
Cyrano:    I  rate  myself,  for  that  I  was  too  bold. 

I  tell  myself,  "Christian,  be  still." 

{The  archlutes  sound.)     Hark!     Hold! 

Somebody  comes. 

(Roxane  shuts  the  window.     Cyrano  listens  to  the  arch- 
lutes,  one  playing  a  merry  measure,  the  other  a  dirge.) 
Cyrano:   A  dance?    A  dirge?    What  do  the  knaves  desire 

To  say?    A  man?    A  woman?  .   .   .  Oh,  ...  A  friar! 

{Enter  a   Capuchin  brother  who  goes  from  house  to  house, 
lantern  in  hand.) 

SCENE  vn 

Cyrano,  Christian,  a  Capuchin  Friar 

Cyrano  {to  the  monk)  :  Whom  have  we  here,  playing  Diogenes? 

The  Friar:    I  seek  the  home  of   .    .    . 

Christian  :  He  makes  us  ill  at  ease. 

The  Friar:   Of  Magdeleine  Robin. 

Christian:  Huh? 

Cyrano  :  Here  she  does  not  dwell, — 

Ahead  .   .   .  keep  straight  ahead. 
The  Friar:  Thank  you.    And  I  will  tell 

My  chaplet  for  you,  to  the  final  Pater. 
Cyrano:    Good  luck.     And  blessings  on  your  cowl,  kind  f rater. 

{He  comes  down,  near  Christian.) 

SCENE  VIII 

Cyrano,  Christian 

Christian  :  Get  me  that  kiss ! 
Cyrano  :  No. 

Christian  :  Soon  or  late  .   .  . 


298  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano:  'Tistrue! 

That  maddening,  perfect  draught  will  brim  for  you. 
Your  lips  will  meet.     Strange  cause  two  souls  to  link, — 
Thou  hast  a  blond  mustache;  her  lips  are  pink. 
And  I  prefer  that  it  should  be  for   .    .    . 

SCENE  IX 
Cyrano,  Christian,  Roxane 

RoXANE  {coming  out  on  the  balcony)  :    You? 

We  spoke  of  ...  of  ...  a  ..   . 
Cyrano:  Of  a  kiss?  'Tis  true. 

I  see, — but  see  not  why, — your  voice  should  tremble. 

If  the  word  burn,  what  will  itself  resemble? 

'Tis  not  a  thing  your  maiden  thoughts  should  flee. 

Have  you  not  sometimes,  half  insensibly. 

Quitted  a  jesting  mood,  yet  free  from  fears, 

Changed  from  a  smile  to  sighs,  from  sighs  to  tears? 

A  change  as  gentle  and  more  sweet  is  this, — 

From  tears  and  tremblings,  to  a  lover's  kiss. 
Roxane:   Ah,  hush! 
Cyrano:  A  kiss,  what  is  it,  after  all? 

Promise  more  perfect,  vows  that  closer  fall. 

A  troth  deep  plighted  seeking  form  to  prove; — 

A  rosy  o  writ  in  the  verb  to  love ; 

Whispers  for  lips,  not  ears;  infinity 

Set  to  the  harping  of  a  honey  bee. 

A  chalice  like  the  dew-drop  in  a  flower. 

Hearts  learn  to  breathe;  Love  gives  them  this  new  power. 

And  rising  to  the  lips,  the  soul  can  drink. 
Roxane:    Ah,  hush! 
Cyrano:  A  kiss  is  crowned, — Nay,  Lady,  think! 

The  Queen  of  France  leaned  to  a  lucky  lord 

And  gave  him  one   ,    .    .    the  Queen ! 
Roxane:   Then   .    .    .    ? 
Cyrano  {uplifted)  :  My  adored, 

I  am  like  Buckingham,  whose  love  was  dumb; 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  299 

Like  him,  I  love  a  Queen;  like  him  I  come 

As  sad,  as  faithful.    .    .    . 
Roxane;  Though  thou  sayst  it  not, — 

As  beautiful ! 
Cyrano    {dashed,  and  speaking  aside)  :    True,    I    am   beautiful, 

I  had  forgot! 
Roxane:   So  be  it !     Climb!     Pluck  this  flower  you  praise  for  me. 
Cyrano   (pushing  Christian  toivard  the  balcony):    Climb! 
Roxane:   This  heart's  breath  .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Climb! 

Roxane:  This  harping  of  the  bee. 

Cyrano:    Climb! 
Christian  : 

I   .    .    .  think  .    .    .  this  not  the  moment!  Let  it  pass!   .    .    . 
Roxane:   This  moment  of  infini  ... 
Cyrano    {pushing)  :  Climb,   you   ass! 

Christian    {overcoming  his  panic,  eagerly  scrambles  up,  by  the 
bench,  the  jutting  stones  the  vines,  and  steps  over  the  rail- 
ing into  the  balcony.) 
Christian:   Ah,  Roxane! 

{He  puts  his  arms  about  her  and  bends  his  head  to  her  lips.) 
Cyrano:  Aie,  heart  that  suffers  thus! 

O,  feast  of  love  where  I  am  Lazarus! 

A  single  crumb  falls  from  the  rich  man's  board. 

My  hungry  heart  devours  it.     'Twas  my  word, — 

Even  mine, — that  won  that  kiss.     Her  dear  lips  seek 

His  lips  for  words  that  I  ...  I  only  .    .    .  speak! 

{The  arch  lutes  sound.) 

A  dance?     A  dirge?    The  friar  again. 
{He  pretends  to  run,  as  if  he  had  just  come  up,  and  calls)  : 
Ho,  there! 
Roxane:   Who  is  it? 

Cyrano:  It  is  L    Christian  still  there? 

Christian    {much  astonished)  :    What,  Cyrano? 
Roxane:    Greeting,  my  cousin. 
Cyrano:  Greeting. 


300  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Roxane:    I  come   ... 

(She  disappears  into  the  house.     Re-enter  the  Capuchin  at 
the  back.) 
Christian  (seeing  him)  :  Oh! 

(He  follows  Roxane.) 

SCENE  X 
Cyrano,  Christian,  Roxane,  the  Capuchin,  Ragueneau 
The  Friar:  It's  here,  I  keep  repeating, 

Magdeleine  Robin. 
Cyrano:  Why,  you  said  Ro-lin! 

The  Friar:   No,  I  said  bin,  sir,  b-i-n,  sir,  bin. 
Roxane   (appearing  on  the  threshold,  followed  by  Ragueneau, 
who  carries  a  lantern,  and  by  Christian)  :    What  is  it? 
The  Friar:  A  letter. 
Christian:  Hein? 

The  Friar:  Some  good  affair 

From  a  most  worthy  lord. 
Roxane  (to  Christian)  :   Of  Guiche. 
Christian:  He'd  dare? 

Roxane:    He  importunes  me,  .    .    .  but  our  moment  comes, 

I  love  thee  and  ... 

(She  takes  the  letter  and  breaks  the  seal.  By  the  light  of  the 
lantern  Ragueneau  holds  for  her,  she  reads  in  a  low 
voice)  :  "My  lady,  the  rude  drums 

Beat  loud.      The  Regiinent  has  donned  its  mail. 

It  leaves,  and  thinks  I  led  the  way.     I  fail. 

And  from  the  monastery  send  this  friar 

To  tell  my  disobedience, — my  desire 

To  come  to  you, — and  that  I  come.     No  goat 

Is  simple  as  the  monk  who  bears  this  note. 

He  suspects  nothing.     Wait  for  me,  alone. 

Your  smiles  have  made  me  mad.     Let  this  atone 

For  my  audacity,  forgiven  the  rather 

That  I  am  one  .    .    .  et  cetera.  ..." 

My  father, 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  301 

Hear  what  is  written  by  this  holy  scribe: 

"Madam:    'Tis  needful  to  subscribe 

To  th'  Cardinal's  will,  however  hearts  rebel. 

So  I  have  chosen  a  friar  known  wide  and  well 

For  holiness,  discretion,  intellect. 

To  bring  you  this  command.      You  must  respect 

The  bearer  and  the  message.     He  ivill  give  .    .    . 

(She  turns  a  page.) 

The  nuptial  benediction, — where  you  live. 

And  secretly.      Christian  becomes  your  spouse. 

Resign  yourself.     You  suffer.     But  your  vows 

Will  please  High  Heaven  Who  will  bless  your  zeal. 

Let  me  express  the  deep  respect  I  feel 

For  your  obedience,   knowing  that  there  are 

Few  harder  duties.     Yours  .    .    .  et  cetera." 

The  Friar  {beaming)  :   O  worthy  gentleman!    I  had  no  fear. 
It  was  a  good  affair  that  brought  me  here. 

RoxANE  (aside,  to  Christian): 

Don't  I  read  letters  well?     Tell  me. 

Christian:  Ah  .    .    .   hum. 

RoXANE  (aloud,  despairingly)  :    Oh,  woe! 

The  Friar  (who  has  flashed  the  light  of  his  lantern  on  Cyrano)  : 
'Tis  you? 

Christian  :   It's  me. 

The  Friar  (turning  the  light  of  his  lantern  on  him  and,  as  if  a 
doubt  assailed  him,  seeing  Christian's  beauty) : 
But   .    .    . 

Roxane   (hurriedly)  :  "Post  scriptum; 

Give  five-score  pistoles  to  the  brotherhood." 

The  Friar:    Ah,  worthy  lord! 

(To  Roxane)  Submit. 

Roxane  (meekly)  :  I  will  be  good. 

(While  Ragueneau  opens  the  door  to  the  Capuchin,  whom 
Christian  ushers  into  the  house,  Roxane  says  in  a  ivhis- 
per  to  Cyrano)  :   You'll  keep  the  Count  of  Guiche? 

Cyrano:  Yes,  on  my  oath! 


302  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Roxane:    He  will  soon  be  here.     Keep  him. 
Cyrano  (to  the  Friar)  :   To  plight  their  troth 

You  need?    .    .    . 
The  Friar:   A  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Cyrano   (hurrying  them  all  into  the  house)  : 

Now  what  known  power  .   .   . 
Roxane  (to  Christian):    Come!  (They  go  in.) 

Cyrano:  .    .    ,  Will  hold  the  Count  a  quarter  of  an  hour? 
(He  springs  up  on  the  bench  and  climbs  to  the  balcony.) 
Come,  climb  !     I  have  my  plan ! 
(The  archlutes  play  a  lugubrious  strain.) 

Hola!    A  man  draws  nigh, — 
This  time,  a  real  one. 

{He  is  on  the  balcony;  he  pulls  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes; 
takes  off  his  sword;  ivraps  his  cloak  about  him;  then  leans 
and  looks  down  from  the  balcony.) 
No ;  that  is  not  too  high, 

{He  steps   over   the   railing,   and  pulls   toiuard   him   a   long 
branch   of  one  of  the  trees  ivhich  grow  along  the  garden 
wall;  then  grasps  it  with  both  hands,  ready  to  let  himself 
drop.) 
I'm  going  to  trouble  this  calm  evening  air. 

SCENE  XI 
Cyrano,  the  Count  of  Guiche 

GuiCHE    {who   enters,  masked,  stumbling  in  the  dark)  : 

Where  is  that  damned  Capuchin,  curse  him?    Where? 
Cyrano:   The  devil!   What  about  my  voice? 

{Freeing  the  branch  with  one  hand,  he  seems  to  turn  an  in- 
visible key):  Cric,  crac ! 

(Solemnly)  Resume  the  accent,  lad,  of  Bergerac! 
Guiche  (looking  at  the  house) : 

Oh,  damn  this  mask!     A  light  would  be  a  boon. 

(Ife  assures  himself  about  the  door  he  seeks,  and  is  about  to 
enter.     Cyrano  leaps  from  the  balcony,  holding  on  by  the 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  303 

branch  uhich,  binding,  lets  him  fall  beticecn  the  door  and 
the  Count  of  Guiche.     lie  pretends  to  fall  heavily  as 
if  from  a  great  height.     Flat  upon  the  ground,  he  lies  mo- 
tionless as  if  stunned.     The  Count  leaps  back.) 
Guiche:    Hcin?    What? 

{When   he  looks   up,   the  branch   has  sprung   back;   he  sees 
only  the  sky;  he  is  mystified.) 

Wlience  came  this  fellow? 
Cyrano  (sitting  up  and  speaking  ivith  the  Gascon  accent)  : 

From  the  Moon! 
Guiche:    From  the  .    .    . 

Cyrano  (still  speaking  in  a  far-away  voice)  :  What  is  the  hour? 
Guiche:  He's  reft  of  reason. 

Cyrano  :  What  hour  ?    What  land  ?    What  day  ?    What  season  ? 
Guiche:  But   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  I'm  dizzy. 

Guiche:  Sir  .    .    . 

Cyrano:  Giddy  ...  for  like  a  bomb 

I  hurtled  from  the  moon. 
Guiche  (impatiently)  :  Nonsense,  man. 
Cyrano  (standing  up  and  speaking  in  a  terrible  voice)  : 

Thence  I  come! 
Guiche  (recoiling)  :    So  be  it.    You  fell. 

(Aside)  A  lunatic,  of  course. 

Cyrano:    Not  metaphorically  but  with  force. 
Guiche:  But  .    .    . 

Cyrano:  Centuries  agone  ...  or  else,  a  minute,  .    .    . 

How  long  I  fell.  I  know  not.     I  was  In  it.    .    .    . 
That  saffron  ball  up  yonder  in  the  sky ! 
Guiche  (shrugging  his  shoulders)  :    Yes.     Let  me  pass. 
Cyrano  (intercepting  him)  :    Be  candid.     Where  am  I? 
Keep  nothing  from  me.     On  what  earthly  site 
Have  I  descended  like  an  aerolite? 
Guiche:   'Sdeath! 

Cyrano:   Falling,  T  had  no  choice,  nor  time  to  tell 
What  should  befall  me, — nor  where  I  be  fell. 


304  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Guiche:   I  tell  you,  sir  .   .   . 

Cyrano   (with  a  shriek  of  terror  which  makes  the  Count  fall 
back):   Good  Lord!    Alack!    Alack! 

In  this  new  country  all  the  men  are  black ! 
Guiche  {putting  his  hand  to  his  face)  :   What? 
Cyrano  (with  every  evidence  of  panic) :   Am  I  in  Algiers?    Are 
all  the  men 

Black  as  .   .   . 
Guiche  (who  has  felt  his  mask)  :    This  mask! 
Cyrano  (feigning  assurance)  :    I  am  in  Venice  then. 
Guiche  (trying  to  pass)  :    I  came  to  meet  a  lady. 
Cyrano  (completely  reassured)  :   I'm  in  Paris! 
Guiche  (laughing  in  spite  of  himself)  :   The  droll  is  fairly  droll. 
Cyrano:  You  laugh?   .    .    . 
Guiche:  Yes  .   .   .  there  is 

No  less  desire  to  pass. 
Cyrano:  Paris,  no  doubt. 

(He  is  quite  at  ease,  now;  he  laughs,  brushes  off  the  dust  of 
his  fall,  bows.) 
Cyrano:  I  came, — your  pardon, — through  a  waterspout, 

Cloudburst,  that  left  its  spray.     I  have  journeyed,  sir. 

My  eyes  are  full  of  Stardust.     Ha,    .    .    .   this  spur 

Caught  in  a  comet's  tail.     This  golden  tinge. 

(He  brushes  his  sleeve  delicately.) 

Here,  on  my  doublet,  is  a  meteor's  fringe. 

(He  blows  it  away,  daintily.) 
Guiche  (beside  himself)  :    Sir   .    .    . 

Cyrano  (as  the  Count  tries  to  pass,  stops  him  by  thrusting  out 
his  leg,  as  if  to  show  him  something)  : 

See,  there,  on  my  calf, — mark  of  a  tooth? 

The  Great  Bear  bit  me.     As  I  dodged,  forsooth 

I  missed  the  Trident  but  I  fell  ker-plunk! 

Into  the  Balances.     See,  they  are  simk ! 

They  mark  my  weight.     Look  how  the  record  lingers. 

(He  buttonholes  the  Count,  who  tries  to  pass  him.) 

If  you  should  tweak  my  nose  between  your  fingers, 

'Twould  prove  a  fount  of  milk. 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERJC  305 

Guiche:    Milk? 

Cyrano  :  Even 

From  the  Milky  Way. 
Guiche:  Oh,  go  to  hell! 
Cyrano:  I  came  from  Heaven. 

{He  crosses  his  arms.) 

Would   you   believe,   Sirius, — I   saw   this  sight, — 

Puts  on  a  cloudy  nightcap  every  night? 

{Confidentially) 

The  Little  Bear  can't  bite; — he  tries  to  nip. 

{Laughing) 

I  broke  a  string  in  Lyra  by  a  slip. 

{Superbly) 

I  mean  to  write  my  travels  in  a  book. 

These  stars  entangled  in  my  mantle, — look, — 

When  I've  recorded  all  my  diverse  risks, 

These  captured  stars  shall  serve  as  asterisks. 
Guiche:   Nevertheless,  I  wish  .    .    . 
Cyrano:  I  get  you  now! 

Guiche:    Sir  .    .    . 
Cyrano:   You  would  learn, — 'tis  reasonable  enow, — 

From  one  who  has  been  there,  if  it's  made  of  cheese, 

Or  if  folk  live  there  natural  as  you  please. 
Guiche  {storming)  :    But  no!     I  wish   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  To  hear  of  my  ascension? 

'Twas  by  a  method  of  my  own  invention. 
Guiche  {discouraged):    Fool! 
Cyrano:    Regiomontanus  tried  an  eagle's  wings; 

Archytas  made  a  pigeon, — silly  things! 
Guiche:   A  fool,  of  course,  and  yet  a  learned  fool. 
Cyrano:    I  never  imitate, — I  make  the  rule. 

{The  Count  has  succeeded  in  passing  him  and  he  strides  tn 
Roxane's  door.  Cyrano  follous  him,  ready  to  lay  hold 
on  him.) 

By  six  sure  methods  I  can  rise  like  vapor. 
Guiche  {turning)  :   Six? 


306  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano  :    I  could  stand  naked  like  a  waxen  taper, 

Caparisoned  with  crystal  phials  clear, 

Unstoppled,  filled  with  summer's  earliest  tear, — 

My  body  to  the  sunlight  I'd  expose, 

And  it  were  lifted  as  the  dew  arose. 
GuiCHE  (his  attention  engaged,  taking  a  step  toward  Cyrano)  : 

Ho !  That  makes  one  way. 

(Cyrano  draws  back  as  Guiche  approaches.) 
Cyrano:  And  again,  I  might 

Draw  winds  into  a  vacuum, — keep  it  tight, — 

Rarify  them,  by  glowing  mirrors,  pressed 

Isosahedron-wise  within  a  chest. 
Guiche  {coming  another  step)  :  Two! 
Cyrano:  Then,  both  mechanic  and  inventor,  I 

Make  a  steel  grasshopper  and  let  it  fly 

By  swift  explosions,  till  it  fire  me  far 

To  the  blue  pastures  of  the  farthest  star. 
Guiche    {following  him,  unsuspectingly,  as  Cyrano  leads  him 
to  the  other  side  of  the  way,  always  farther  from   Rox- 
ane's  door)  :  Three! 
Cyrano:  Or,  since  smoke  rises  in  its  natural  state, 

I'd  catch  a  globeful,  equal  to  my  weight. 
Guiche  {same  business,  always  more  and  more  astonished)  : 

Four  I 
Cyrano:    Luna  loves,  what  time  her  bow  is  narrow. 

To  suck  beef-marrow,  so  I'd  smear  with  marrow. 
Guiche  {amazed) :   Five! 

Cyrano  {who  as  he  talks  has  led  him  to  the  other  side  of  the 
square,  near  a  bench):  On  an  iron  disc  I'd  stand  with 
care, 

And  toss  a  lodestone  lightly  in  the  air. 

That  is  a  good  way.     When  the  iron  flew, 

Drawn  by  the  magnet,  as  we  nearer  drew, 

I'd  catch  the  magnet, — toss  it  up!     You  sec, 

One  might  keep  climbing  through  eternity. 


CYRANO  OF  BKRGERAC  307 

Guiche:    Six!     And  all  excellent.     Now,  t«ll  me,  pray, 

Which  method  did  you  choose? 
Cyrano:  A  seventh  way! 

Guiche:  Indeed!    And  what? 
Cyrano:  Give  up!     You'd  never  guess! 

Guiche:    Stark  mad,  but  most  ingenious  none  the  less. 
Cyrano    {making  a  sound  like  waves  on   the  shore,  and  wide, 

mysterious  gestures)  :   Woosh  !     Woosh  ! 
Guiche:  What's  that? 

Cyrano:  You've  guessed  it? 

Guiche:  No. 

Cyrano:  It  is  the  ocean! 

When  the  moon  moved  the  yearning  tide  to  motion 

I  lay  out  on  the  sands,  wave-wet,  and  so 

My  head  was  moved,  and  lifted   .    .    .   lifted  slow, — 

Hair  holds  the  water,  sir, — and  very  slowly, 

I  rose,  just  like  an  angel,  stifiF  and  holy. 

Effortless,  splendid,  high  above  all  men 

I  rose    ...     I  rose    ...     I  felt  a  shock.     .     .     . 
Guiche   {engulfed  in  curiosity  and  sitting  dozen  on  the  bench)  : 

And  then?  .   .   . 
Cyrano:   Then  .   .   . 

{Taking  his  natural  voice  once  more.) 

The  time  is  up,  Sir,  and  I  set  you  free. 

The  wedding's  over. 
Guiche  {leaping  to  his  feet)  :   What  has  come  over  me? 

That  voice! 

{The    house    door    sicings    open;    lackeys    appear    carrying 
lighted  sconces.    A  flood  of  light.    Cyrano,   ivith  a  sweep- 
ing boiv,  doffs  his  plumed  hat.) 
Guiche:  That  nose! 

Cyrano   {saluting)  :    Sir,  while  we  spoke  of  wings. 

Exchanging  fancies,  they  exchanged  their  wings. 
Guiche:    Who? 

{They  turn.     Behind  the  lackeys,  RoxANE  and  Christian, 
hand  in  hand.    The  Friar  follows  them,  smiling  benignly. 


308  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Ragueneau  holds  a  torch  high.  The  Duenna  brings  up 
the  rear  of  the  procession,  a  bewildered  figure  in  a  short 
bed  gown.) 

SCENE  XII 

The    Same,    Roxane,    Christian^    the    Friar,    Ragueneau, 

Lackeys,  the  Duenna, 

GuiCHE  {to  Roxane):   You? 

{Recognizing  Christian  with  stupefaction)'.    He! 

{Bowing  loiu  to  Roxane):    Most  artfully  contrived! 

{To  Cyrano)  :    My  compliments.    The  perils  you  survived, 

And  your  inventions,  would  arrest  a  mortal. 

Though  he  were  saint,  at  heaven's  very  portal. 

Pray,  sir,  record  them,  for  the  future's  sake. 
Cyrano  {bowing)  :    Sir,  'tis  a  counsel  I  engage  to  take. 
The    Friar    {pointing   to   the   lovers,   wagging    his   long   white 
beard  and  addressing  the  Count  with  great  satisfaction)  : 
A  handsome  couple  I     They  obeyed  you  well. 
GuiCHE  {looking  at  him  stonily)  :   Yes. 

{To  Roxane)  :    Madam  kindly  bid  your  spouse  farewell. 
Roxane:   What?   Why? 
GuiCHE  {to  Christian)  :   The  Regiment  already  marches  out. 

Join  it. 
Roxane:  To  go  to  war? 

Quiche:  Aye,  past  all  doubt. 

Roxane:    But  the  Cadets  go  not. 
Quiche:  They  go,  indeed. 

{He  takes  a  paper  from  his  pocket.) 

The  orders.     {To  Christian) 

Take  them,  Baron,  and  with  speed. 
Roxane  {throwing  herself  into  Christian's  arms):  Christian! 
Quiche  {chuckling,  to  Cyrano)  :    The  nuptial  niglit  is  far  ofif, 

still. 
Cyrano  {aside)  :   He  thinks  that  thought  has  done  me  mortal  ill. 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  309 

Christian   [to  Roxane)  :    Thy  lips,  .    .    .  once  more,  .    .    . 

once  more! 
Cyrano:  Enough.     Ah,  go! 

Christian   {still  embracing  Roxane)  :    'Tis  hard  to  give  her 

up.     Thou  knowst  not. 
Cyrano:  Aye,  I  know! 

{Far  away,  drums  arc  heard,  sounding  a  march.) 
GuiCHE   {coming  forward)  :    The  Regiment  departs. 
Roxane   {to    Cyrano,    while    she    holds    Christian    back,    as 
Cyrano  tries  to  lead  him  away)  :    I  trust  you.     Oh, 

Don't  let  him  be  in  danger,  Cyrano! 

Promise ! 
Cyrano:   I'll  try.    And  yet,  however  prayerful, 

One  cannot  always   .    .    . 
Roxane:  Promise  he'll  be  careful! 

Cyrano:    I'll  do  my  utmost.  .   .   . 
Roxane  :  Make  him  take  some  rest. 

And  not  get  chilled. 
Cyrano:  I'll  do  my  very  best. 

But  .    .    . 
Roxane:  That  he  will  be  faithful. 

Cyrano:  I  declare 

I  arn  sure  .    .    . 
Roxane  :  That  he'll  write  often ! 

Cyrano  {standing  suddenly  motionless)  :    That,  I  swear! 

(  Curtain  ) 


ACT  IV 
Cadets  of  Gascony 

The  post  occupied  by  the  company  of  Carbon  of  Castel- 
Jaloux  at  the  Siege  of  Arras. 

In  the  background  breastworks  traverse  the  entire  scene.  Be- 
yond, a  plain  stretches  to,  the  horizon.  The  ground  is  furrowed 
with  earthworks.  Far  away,  against  the  sky  line,  the  walls  and 
roofs  of  Arras. 

Tents;  scattered  arms;  drums,  etc. 

It  is  near  daybreak.     The  East  is  pale  gold. 

Sentinels  are  posted  at  intervals.  Camp  fires  burn  low.  Rolled 
in  their  cloaks,  the  Cadets  of  Gascony  sleep.  Carbon  of  Castel- 
Jaloux  and  Le  Bret  watch.  They  are  pale  and  very  thin.  In 
the  foreground,  wrapped  in  his  cloak.  Christian  sleeps  among 
the  rest,  his  face  lit  by  the  firelight.     Silence. 

SCENE  I 

Christian,  Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux,  Le  Bret,  the  Cadets; 

later,  Cyrano 

Le  Bret;  Horrible! 

Carbon  :  Nothing  is  left ! 

Le  Bret:  'Sdeath! 

Carbon  {signing  to  him  to  speak  softly)  : 

Soft !    Lest  thou  wake  them !     Swear  beneath  thy  breath. 

{To  the  Cadets)    'Shsh !  Sleep.     Who  sleeps  dines. 
Le  Bret:  And  who  wakes,  dines  not. 

What  dearth  !     What  famine ! 

{A  gunshot  is  heard  in  the  distance.) 
Carbon:  Curse  that  noisy  shot! 

They'll  wake  my  children. 

{To  some  Cadets,  who  stir)    Sleep! 

310 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  311 

A  Cadet  {moving  uneasily)  :    Damn  it!     They  begin 

Again. 
Carbon  :   It's  nothing.    Cyrano  comes  in, 

(The  lifted  heads  fall  back;  the  Cadets  sleep  again.) 
A  Sentinel  (without)  :    Zounds!    Who  goes  there? 
The  Voice  of  Cyrano:    Bergcrac! 
The  Sentinel  (on  the  ramparts)  :    Give  the  word. 
Cyrano  (appearing  on  the  crest  of  the  ramparts)  : 

Bergerac,  you  fool. 
Le  Bret   (going  to  meet  him,  disgusted)  :  Good  Lord! 
Cyrano  (signing  to  him  not  to  wake  the  Cadets)  :    Sh! 
Le  Bret:  Wounded? 
Cyrano:  Nay!    Thou  knowst  it  is  their  rule 

To  miss  me  every  morning. 
Le  Bret:  Such  a  fool! 

Each  day!     To  take  a  letter!    .    .    .    Nearly  light.    .    .    . 

Always  this  risk   .    .    .    ! 
Cyrano  (stopping  at  Christian's  side) :    I  promised  he  would 
write. 

(He  looks  at  him.)     He  sleeps.     He  is  pale.     Poor  child,  she 
does  not  know 

He  is  starving.    .    .    .    But  still  beautiful. 
Le  Bret:  Oh,  go 

And  get  some  sleep. 
Cyrano:  Don't  scold,  Le  Bret.     I  have  found 

A  way  to  cross  their  lines  both  safe  and  sound. 

A  post  that's  guarded, — but  by  drunken  men. 
Le  Bret:   I  wish  you  brought  some  victuals  with  you,  then! 
Cyrano:  One  must  tread  lightly!     But,  being  near  their  trench, 

I  got  an  inkling  that  ere  night  the  French 

Will  eat  or  die. 
Le  Bret:    Quick   .    .    .    tell! 
Cyrano:  Nay,  wait  and  see. 

I  am  not  sure.    ,    .    . 
Carbon  :  What  shame,  what  infamy 

Besiegers  die  of  hunger ! 


312  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Le  Bret:  Aye,  alas! 

Never  was  siege  like  this  siege  of  Arras. 

We  compass  Arras.     Cardinal  Infant 

Of  Spain  besieges  us, — and  brings  this  want. 
Cyrano:   Now,  someone  should  besiege  the  Heir  of  Spain. 
Le  Bret:  I  do  not  laugh. 
Cyrano:  Oh,  oh! 

Le  Bret:  Large  risk, — small  gain. 

Thy  life  against  a  letter.     Oh,  I  smother 

With  rage.     Where  now? 

(Seeing  him  go  toward  a  tent.) 
Cyrano:  I  go  to  write  another. 

{He  raises  the  tent  flap  and  disappears.) 


SCENE  II 

The  Same,  without  Cyrano 

The  dawn  brightens.  There  are  rosy  streaks  along  the  eastern 
sky.  The  city  of  Arras  is  gold  on  the  horizon.  A  cannon  shot  is 
heard;  followed  by  the  sound  of  distant  drums  on  the  left.  Other 
drums  sound  nearer.  They  come  closer,  as  if  they  were  at  hand, 
and  then  go  farther  away  on  the  right,  going  through  the  whole 
camp.  The  camp  is  waking.  Officers'  voices  are  heard  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

Carbon  :  The  bugle-call.    Alas,  it  is  so  fleet 

Succulent  sleep !     I  know  what  they  will  cry. 

A  Cadet  {sitting  up):  Something  to  eat! 

Another:    I  starve. 

Carbon:  Get  up. 

Third  Cadet:  I  cannot  move. 

Fourth  Cadet:  No  good. 

The  First  {using  his  cuirass  as  a  mirror)  : 

My  tongue  is  coated.     Wind's  unwholesome  food. 

Another:    I'd  give  my  baron's  wreath  for  bread  and  cheese. 
Achilles  sulked  when  far  less  ill  at  ease. 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  313 

Another:    Is  his  wind-pipe  a  fellow's  only  pipe? 

I  want  some  food.     I'm  tired  of  eating  tripe! 
Another:    Bread! 
Carbon   {going  to  the  tent  into  which  Cyrano  disappeared,  and 

whispering):   Cyrano! 
Other  Cadets:   We  die! 
Carbon  {still  in  a  whisper,  at  the  tent  flap) : 

Come  to  our  aid. 

They  feed  upon  thy  banter.     I  am  dismayed.    .    .    . 

Rally  them,  thou ! 
Second  Cadet   {rushing  up  to  the  first,  who   is  chewing  some- 
thing) :    Hey,  there,  what  is't  you  munch? 
First  Cadet:    I  have  a  bit  of  greasy  tow  for  lunch. 

It's  soaked  in  axle  grease  for  cannon  wheels. 

Outskirts  of  Arras  furnish  luscious  meals. 
Another  {entering)  :    I  have  been  hunting. 

Another  {corning  in  at  the  same  moment)  :   I  fished  in  the  Scarp. 
All  {getting  up  and  rushing  toward  the  newcomers)  : 

What  did  you  get?    A  pheasant?    You?    A  carp? 

Quick!     Show  us,  quick! 
The  Fisher:  A  gudgeon. 

The  Hunter:  Sparrow. 

All  {exasperated):  Oh! 

Enough.     Let's  mutiny! 
Carbon:  Help,  Cyrano! 

(//  is  bright  daylight.) 

SCENE  ITT 
The  Same,  Cyrano 

Cyrano   {coming  out  of  his  tent;  calm;  a  pen  behind  his  ear,  a 

book  in  his  hand)  :    Hein? 
{To  the  First  Cadet)  :   Why  dost  thou  tread  with  such  a 

halting  gait? 
The  Cadet:    I've  something  in  my  shoe, — a  dragging  weight. 
Cyrano:    Why,  what  is  that? 


314  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  Cadet:  A  stomach. 

Cyrano:  So  have  I. 

The  Cadet:  It  must  impede  you. 

Cyrano  :  No,  it  lifts  me  high. 

Another:   My  teeth  feel  long. 

Cyrano:  Hold  fast,  with  teeth  so  large. 

A  Third:   My  belly  rumbles. 

Cyrano:  It  will  sound  the  charge. 

Another:   My  ears  are  ringing. 

Cyrano:  'Tis  a  lie  he  hears. 

Who  rang  a  breakfast  bell  in  that  man's  ears? 
Another:   Something  to  eat,  with  oil! 
Cyrano  {snatching  his  helmet  off  and  thrusting  it  into  his  hands)  : 

Thy  salad,  lad. 
Another:  What  is  there  to  devour? 

Cyrano  (tossing  him  the  book  he  had  in  his  hand)  :    The  Iliad. 
Another:   The  minister  at  Paris  richly  dines. 
Cyrano:   Shall  he  send  grouse,  or  quail? 
The  Cadet:  Why  not?     And  wines! 

Cyrano:    Burgundy,  Richelieu!     This  delay  is  rude. 
The  Cadet:  By  what  Capuchin? 

Cyrano:  Oh,  some  friar, — stewed. 

Another:    I'm  hungry  as  a  hound! 
Cyrano:  Then  eat  thy  hair. 

The  First  Cadet:  Absurd! 

Always  the  word,  the  point ! 
Cyrano:  Always  the  point,  the  word! 

And  I  would  die,  at  eve  'neath  rosy  skies, 

Making  a  brave  jest  for  a  high  emprise! 

Pierced  by  the  only  noble  weapon  made. 

And  by  a  knightly  foeman ;  unafraid  ; 

On  glory's  field, — not  deathbed's  dull  eclipse; 

A  point  within  my  heart, — and  on  my  lips! 
A  Cry  from  All  the  Cadets:  I  am  himgry! 
Cyrano  (folding  his  arms):   What?    You  talk  of  food  again? 

Come,  Bertrandou  the  fifor,  ancient  swain, 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  315 

Take  from  its  leathern  case  thy  ebon  fife. 

These  greedy-guts  think  meat  is  more  than  life. 

Play  to  them,  .  .   .  country  airs,  .   .   .  the  soft  notes  faUing 

Like  little  sisters'  voices,  calling,  calling; 

Songs  of  our  land ;  echoes  of  our  own  folk, 

Airs  that  rise  gently  like  the  wreaths  of  smoke 

That  from  the  hearthfires  of  our  birthplace  come, — 

Old  airs  that  seem  the  very  voice  of  home! 

( The  old  fifer  sits  down  and  draws  out  his  fife.) 

Now^  let  thy  fife,  a  soldier  tried  and  good, 

Recall,  a  moment,  feeling  on  her  wood 

Thy  fingers  move  like  song  birds,  light  and  free, 

She  was  a  reed,  ere  she  was  ebony ! 

Let  her  own  voice  surprise  her  soul  in  sooth, 

Call  back  her  rustic  peace,  her  heart  of  youth! 

{The  old  man  begins  to  play  Langucdocian  airs.) 

Oh,  listen,  Gascons!     The  shrill  fife  is  mute. 

Under  his  fingers,  'tis  a  woodland  flute. 

No  breath  of  battle  echoes  in  these  notes. 

It  is  the  galoubet  that  calls  the  goats ! 

Hark   .    .    .    'tis  the  vale,  the  wood,  the  land  outspread ; 

The  small  brown  goatherd,  with  his  bonnet  red ;  .   .   . 

Green  twilight  .    .    .  rivers  whispering  to  the  lea. 

Ah,  listen,  Gascons.     It  is  Gascony. 

(All  the  heads  are  bowed;  all  the  eyes  dream;  tears  are  fur- 
tively dried  on  sleeves  or  hems  of  cloaks.) 
Carbon  {to  Cyrano)  :  You  make  them  weep. 
Cyrano:  Nostalgia  is  an  ill 

Nobler  than  hunger.-   Man  is  spirit  still! 

I  love  the  change  the  airs  of  home  could  make. 

The  heart-ache  helps  to  heal  their  belly-ache. 
Carbon:    Making  them  tender,  thou  wilt  make  them  weak. 
Cyrano  {luho  signs  to  a  drummer  to  approach)  : 

No  fear!    Their  heroes'  blood  is  swift  to  speak. 

Quick  to  awaken. 

{He  gives  a  signal.     The  drum  sounds.) 


316  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

All  {springing  up  and  seizing  their  arms)  : 

Hein?    What?    What's  that? 
Cyrano:  That  soul 

Wakes  to  one  drum  beat,  to  a  single  roll. 

Farewell,  dreams,  tears,  regrets,  old  scenes!    And  come 

All  the  flute  banished, — wakened  by  the  drum! 
A  Cadet  {who  has  been  looking  toivard  the  background)  : 

Ah,  hah  I    The  Count  of  Guiche. 
All  the  Cadets  {grumbling)  :   Huh! 
Cyrano  {smiling)  :  How  that  charmer 

Is  welcomed,  here. 
A  Cadet  :   He  makes  us  tired ! 
Another:  His  armor 

Decked  with  lace  collars, — man  you  can't  rely  on. 
Another:    Linen  wa'n't  made  to  wear  atop  of  iron! 
First  Cadet:    Good  if  you  have  a  boil,  a  fat  feruncle! 
Second  Cadet:   The  courtier,  alwajs. 
Another:  Nephew  of  his  uncle. 

Carbon  :   Still  he's  a  Gascon. 
First  Cadet:  Title's  rather  hazy. 

Because  .  .   .  why,  Gascons  .   .   .  Gascons  must  be  crazy. 

A  sober  Gascon  is  too  dangerous. 
Le  Bret:   He  is  pale. 
Another:    Hungry,  poor  devil,  like  the  rest  of  us! 

But,  since  his  breastplate  is  with  silver  dight. 

His  cramping  belly  twinkles  in  the  light! 
Cyrano  {hurriedly)  :    Dice!    Cards!     He  mustn't  find  us  in  the 
dumps! 

{In  a  moment,  they  all  begin  to  play  cards,  to  throiv  dice, 
sitting   on   drums   or   camp  stools   or   their   cloaks    on    the 
ground;  they  light  long  pipes.) 
Cyrano  {taking  a  slim  volume  out  of  his  pocket)  : 

Discard  Descartes?     No,  books  arc  alwaj's  trumps! 

{He  walks  up  and  down,  reading.  The  Count  of  Guiche 
enters.  Everybody  seems  occupied  and  cheerful.  He  is 
very  pale.    He  goes  to  Carbon.) 


CYRJXO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  317 

SCENE  IV 

The  Same,  the  Count  of  Cuiche 

GuiCHE   (ifj  Carbon):    Good  morning. 

{They  scrutinize  each  other.     Aside,  with  satisfaction)  : 
He  is  green. 
Carbon   {aside)  :  He  is  all  eyes. 

Quiche  {looking  at  the  Cadets)  : 

Here  are  my  critics,  then?    Yes,  I  am  wise, — 

I  have  reports  of  the  abuse  one  hears ; 

That  the  Cadets, — these  lofty  mountaineers, — 

These  rowdy  squires, — barons  of  Perigord, — 

Have  for  their  Colonel  not  a  decent  word ; 

That  I  am  called  courtier,  schemer;  that  I  fail 

To  please  them  wearing  lace  above  my  mail; 

That  it  offends  them,  in  good  sooth,  to  see 

A  Gascon,  who  yet  goes  not  beggarly. 

{Silence.     They  play.    They  smoke.) 

Pray,  shall  I  have  your  captain  punish  you? 

No. 
Carbon  ;    It  is,  moreover,  what  I  will  not  do. 
Quiche:  Ah? 
Carbon:  I  pay  my  Company;  'tis  mine,  till  death. 

I  obey  field  orders  only. 
Quiche:  Ah?    My  faith, 

That  settles  it. 

{Addressing  himself  to  the  Cadets)  : 

I  can  despise  your  folly; 

The  world  knows  how  I  face  the  muskets'  volley. 

At  Baupaume  yesterday,  they  hailed  with  joy 

The  way  I  met  and  put  to  rout  Bucquoi. 

Ah,  there  was  action  lessers  fights  to  dwarf! 

Three  times  I  charged  ! 
Cyrano  {without  raising  his  eyes  from  his  book)  : 

And  what  about  your  scarf? 
Quiche  {surprised  and  gratified)  : 


318  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

You  know  that  detail?    Thus  it  came  about, — 

'Twas  as  I  wheeled  to  follow  up  the  rout. 

Assembling  my  command  for  this  third  charge, 

Some  fleeing  foemen  swept  me  to  the  marge 

Of  their  main  force.     I  saw  I  might  be  hit, 

Or  captured  surely.     So  I  had  the  wit 

To  loose  the  scarf  of  white  that  told  the  woi 

Of  such  a  capture, — let  it  slip  to  earth ; 

Without  insignia  to  attract  their  aim, 

I  dodged  the  Spaniards.     When  once  more  I  came, 

I  led  the  Regiment!    Ah,  that  is  war! 

What  do  you  say? 

(The  Cadets  have  appeared  not  to  listen;  but  nozv  cards  and 
dice  boxes  are  held  suspended;  the  pipe  smoke  is  held  in 
their  cheeks.     Attention.) 
Cyraxo:  That  Henry  of  Navarre 

Had  not  consented, — to  give  safety  room, — 

To  lower  himself  by  doffing  his  white  plume. 

(Silent  joy.     The  cards  are  loiuered;  dice  rattle;  smoke  ex- 
hales.) 
Guiche:    The  dodge  succeeded  well. 

(Same  expectancy;  cards,  dice  and  pipes  held  in  suspense.) 
Cyrano:  Though  that  may  be. 

To  be  a  target  for  the  enemy 

Is  not  an  honour  one  would  lightly  yield. 

(Cards  are  shuffled;  dice  are  thrown;  smoke  wreaths  rise; 
waxing  satisfaction.) 

Had  I  been  present,  sir,  upon  that  field, 

— Our  courage  differs  thus,— I  should  have  raised 

And  worn  it. 
Guiche:  Still  Gascon,  still  self-praised! 

Cyraxo  :  Self-praised ! 

Lend  it  to  me!     This  morning  under  fire, 

I'll  lead  the  assault  and  wear  it  in  snltire! 
Guiche:   A  Gascon's  offer,  knowing  well  the  scarp 

Lies  with  the  enemy  along  the  Scarpe, 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  319 

In  a  place  hotly  raked  by  canister. 

No  one  can  fetch  it. 
Cyrano    {taking  the  white   military  scarp  from   his  pocket  and 
handing  it  to  him)  :    I  have  brought  it,  sir. 

(Silence.     The  Cadets  cover  their  laughter  in  the  hands  dealt 
them  and  in  dice-boxes.    The  Count  turns  to  look  at  them. 
Immediately  they  are  grave  again;  they  resume  their  play; 
one  whistles  the  air  the  fifer  played.) 
Guiche:    I  thank  you.     Having  this  fair  scarp  to  shake, 

I'll  make  a  signal  I  was  loathe  to  make. 

(JJe  climbs  to  the  top  of  the  breastworks  and  waves  the  scarf 
repeatedly.) 
The  Sentinel  (on  the  breastworks)  : 

That  man  down  there,  who  saves  himself  by  running!  .    .    . 
Guiche  (coming  down)  :  A  traitor  spy.    I've  matched  the  Span- 
iard's cunning. 

He  serves  us  well,  bearing  them  information — 

Which  I  supply.    You  see,  by  this  gradation 

I  influence  the  game  that  they  are  playing. 
Cyrano:   A  scurvy  knave! 
Guiche  (carelessly,  knotting  his  scarf)  : 

But  useful.  .  .  .  We  were  saying?  .  .  . 

Ah,  yes!     I  meant  to  tell  you  this.     Last  night, — 

A  desperate  hazard  for  our  desperate  plight, — 

The  Marshall  marched  to  Dourlens,  on  the  chance 

Of  joining  there  the  sutlers'  stores  of  France, 

To  revictual  us.     But,  since  supplies  encumber. 

He  drew  upon  the  troops  to  such  a  number 

The  foe  would  find  an  easy  task,  attacking 

Our  camp  to-day.    Why,  half  the  army's  lacking. 
Carbon:   That  might  be  serious  if  our  friends  the  foe 

Knew  of  that  sortie.     But  they  don't? 
Guiche:  They  know. 

They  will  attack. 
Carbon:   Ah! 
Guiche:  Their  false  spy's  .    .    .  indiscretion 


320  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Enabled  me  to  learn  of  their  aggression. 

He  added,  "My  report  when  I  go  back 

Decides  it.    At  what  point  shall  they  attack? 

I  shall  report  that  place  as  least  defended. 

There  they  will  concentrate."     So,  when  he  ended, 

I  answered,  "Good.    Go,  watch  along  the  line. 

Bid  them  attack  where  you  descry  my  sign!" 
Carbon  {to  the  Cadets)  :    Make  ready,  gentlemen! 

{They  all  rise.     Clatter  of  sivords  and  buckling  on  of  belts.) 
Guiche:  One  hour  hence.   .    .    . 

First  Cadet:  Oh!   .    .    .   Play! 

(  They  all  sit  down  again  and  resurne  the  interrupted  game.^ 
Guiche  {to  Carbon)  :  We  must  gain  time.    The  Marshall's  on 

the  way. 
Carbon  :  And  to  gain  time  .    .    .    ? 
Guiche:  Why,  you  will  have  the  kindness 

To  let  yourselves  be  killed. 
Cyrano  :   And  you,  avenged  ? 
Guiche:  'Twere  blindness 

To  think  I  love  you.    I  pretend  naught.    Still, 

While  choosing  you  and  yours  suits  me  not  ill, 

Your  crazy  courage  is  a  far-famed  thing, 

And  serving  my  revenge,  I  serve  my  King. 
Cyrano:    I  am  your  debtor  for  this  thing  you've  done. 
Guiche:   You  like  to  fight  a  hundred  to  your  one. 

I'll   not  withhold   the  opportunity. 

{He  goes  toward  Carbon.) 
Cyrano:    We'll  deck  her  blazon,  lads  of  Gascony! 

Six  chevrons,  gold  and  azure,  make  it  gay; — 

We'll  add  a  crimson  chevron,  boys,  to-day. 

(Guiche  speaks  in  a  low  voice  to   Carbon  of  CasteL' 
Jaloux.      Orders   are  given.      The   defense   is   prepared. 
Cyrano  goes  toward  Christian,  who  stands  motionless, 
his  arms  crossed  on  his  breast.) 
Cyrano  {putting  his  hand  on  Christian's  shoulder) : 

Christian  ? 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  321 

Christian    {mournfully  shaking   his  head):    Roxane! 

Cyrano:   Alas! 

Christian:  I  could  bear  it  better 

If  I  could  say  good-bye  in  one  fair  letter. 
Cyrano:    I  thought  'twould  be  to-day — Oh,  just  a  guess  .    .    . 

{He  takes  a  letter  from  his  breast.) 

I   wrote  thy   farewell. 
Christian:  Show  me. 

Cyrano:  Show  .    .    .    ? 

Christian:  Why,  yes! 

(Christian  opens  it,  begins  to  read,  stops  suddenly.) 

Hold  .    .    .    ! 
Cyrano:  What? 

Christian:  This  little  ring  .    .    .    ? 

Cyrano  {hastily  seizes  the  letter,  and  looks  at  it  with  an  inno- 
cent air)  :  A  ring? 
Christian:  A  tear! 

Cyrano:  Yes  .   .   .  Yes  ...  A  poet  finds  his  work  so  dear  .   .   . 

He  is  enwrapt.  .    .    .  This  was  ...  a  moving  theme. 

I  moved  myself  to  tears,  with  this,  thy  dream. 
Christian:   Tears  .   .   .    ? 
Cyrano:  Yes  .   .   .  because  .   .   .  death  is  not  terrible, 

But  .    .    .   never  see  her  more!     That's  horrible! 

For  nevermore  will  I   .    .    . 

(Christian  stares  at  him.)       .   .   .  will  we  .   .   . 

{Hastily)  wilt  thou    .    .    . 

Christian  {snatching  the  letter  from  him)  :   Give  it  to  me! 

{Afar,  one  hears  a  noise  in  the  camp.) 
Voice  of  the  Sentinel:   'Odsbody,  who  comes  now? 

{Musket  shots.    Voices.    Jingle  of  harness.) 
Carbon:   What's  this? 
Sentinel   {on  the  ramparts):   A  coach! 

{Everybody  rushes  to  sec.) 
Cries:  A  coach  in  camp!     A  wonder! 

And  from  the  Spaniard's  side!     Blood,  death  and  thunder! 


322  PLJYS  OF  EDMOXD  ROSTAXD 

Fire !     No !     The   coachman's  calling.    .     .    .    What's  this 

thing? 
He  is  crying,  "Service  of  the  King!" 
Guiche:  The  King? 

{Everybody  falls  back  and  forms  in   line.) 
Carbon  :    Heads  bared ! 

Guiche  (calling)  :  Fall  in,  there!    'Tis  the  King  he  serves. 
Give  place.     With  due  pomp  let  him  make  the  curves. 
{The  coach  comes  on  at  a  full  trot.    It  is  covered  with  mud 
and  dust.     The   curtains  are   draicn.     Two   footmen    ride 
behind.     It  comes  sharply  to  a  halt.) 
Carbon    { calling)  :    Sound  the  salute! 

(The  drums  roll.     All  the  Cadets  stand  ivith  bared  heads.) 
Guiche:    Let  down  the  steps! 

(Tiio  men  leap  to  obey.    The  door  is  opened.) 
RoxANE    (springing  from  the  coach):    Good  day! 

(The  sound  of  a  woman's  voice  brings  up  in  a  flash  all  the 
heads  that  were  so  profoundly  bowed.    Stupefaction.) 


SCENE  V 

The  Same,  RoxAXE 

Guiche:   King's  business.  .   .   .  You?  .   .  . 

Roxase:  King  Love!     WTiat  other,  pray? 

CvR-ANO :    Great  God  ! 

Christian    (rushing  forward)  :    You!     Why? 

Rox.4Ne:  The  siege  went  slowly,  sir. 

Christian:   Why?  .   .    . 

Roxane:  I  will  tell  thee.  .   .    . 

Cyr-ANO   (who,  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  has  stood,  head  bared, 

immobile,   not  daring   to   lift   his  eyes):    God!     To  look 

on  her! 
Guiche:    You  cannot  stay  here. 

Roxane:  But  I  will,  you  know. 

Will  you  bring  up  that  drum? 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  323 

{She  seats  herself  on  the  drum  which  somebody   hastens  to 
bring  for  her.)  Ah,  thank  you!     So! 

{She  laughs.)   My  coach  was  fired  on!    Truly! 

{Proudly.)  A  patrol! 

'Tis  like  the  pumpkin  coach,  upon  my  soul — 

Now,  isn't  it?     Just  like  the  fairy  tale, 

With  the  rat  footmen. 

{Throwing  a  kiss  to  Christian  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers.) 

Greeting! 

{She  looks  at  everybody.)  You  are  pale. 

Do  you  know  'tis  far,  to  Arras? 

{Seeing  Cyrano):    Greeting,  Cousin.     La  me! 
Cyrano  {coming  forward)  :    How  could  you.  .    .    .  Oh  .    .    .    ? 
Roxane:  How  could  I  find  the  Army? 

My  friend,  it  was  too  simple.     We  drove  straight 

Where  all  the  land  was  ravaged, — desolate. 

Ah,  God!  the  horror!     No  one  could  believe, 

Not  having  seen.     Sirs,  if  your  king  receive 

Such  service, — mine's  a  better  king! 
Cyrano  :  'Tis  mad ! 

Now^  how  the  devil  could  you  pass? 
Roxane:  We  had 

To  come  by  the  Spanish  lines. 
First  Cadet:  The  subtle  Shes! 

Guiche:    How  could  you  pass  their  lines  and  come  to  these? 
Le  Bret:    Surely,  most  difficult. 
Roxane:  Why,  no,  not  very. 

We  just  drove  through,  my  coach  with  my  equerry. 

If  some  hidalgo  showed  a  visage  grim. 

Through  parted  curtains,  I  just  smiled  at  him. 

Those  greatest  gallants  of  the  world, — I  say 

So  much  to  Frenchmen, — sped  me  on  my  way. 
Carbon  :   Certes,  it  is  a  passport, — Roxane's  smile ! 

And  yet,  they  must  have  asked  you,  mile  by  mile. 

Whither  you  went? 
Roxane:  Oh,  that?    Yes,  oft  and  over! 


324 


PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 


I  answered,  "Sirs,  I  go  to  see  my  lover." 

At  that,  the  Spaniard  of  the  fiercest  mien 

Would  close  the  door,  as  if  he  served  a  queen, 

And  with  a  gesture  worthy  of  a  king, 

Wave  back  the  guns  already  threatening, — 

With  all  the  haughty  grandeur  of  his  race 

Stand,  so  the  wind  would  ruffle  his  sleeve  lace 

And  show  his  plumes  like  breeze-blown  pampas  grass; 

Then — "Senorita,"  bowing,  "you  may  pass." 

Christian:    But  Roxane  .    .    . 

Roxane:  I  said,  "my  lover,"  spite  our  vows. 

Thou  knowest,  love,  if  I  had  said,  "my  spouse," 
They  wouldn't  let  me  pass. 

Christian:    But  .    .    . 


Roxane 

GuiCHE 

Roxane  : 

Cyrano  : 
Le  Bret: 
Christian 
Roxane : 


What  is  wrong? 
You  must  go. 

I? 

With  speed! 


Oh,    go   along ! 


Yes! 


Why; 


Christian  (embarrassed)  :    Because 


because 


Cyrano  (same) 
GuiCHE  (same) 
Carbon  (same) 
Le  Bret  (same) 
Roxane : 

I  shall  stay. 
All: 
Roxane: 


Oh,  while  we  prattle 
The  hour  speeds  .    .    . 

You'd  best  .    . 
You  might  .    . 


No! 


A  battle! 


My  husband ! 

(She  throws  herself  into  Christian's  arms) 

Together. 
Christian:  How  your  eyes  shine! 

Roxane:  Knowst  thou  why? 

Guiche  (frantic)  :    This  is  a  fearful  post! 
Roxane   (turning/):  Fearful? 


We  will  die 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  325 

Cyrano:  Needs  but  to  state 

He  gave  it  us. 
Roxane:  You'd  have  me  desolate, — 

Widowed  .    .    .    ? 
Guiche:  I  swear!  .   .   . 

Roxane:  Nay,  I  am  mad!  Refusing 

To  leave,  I  please  myself.     It  is  .    .    .  amusing. 
Cyrano:   What's  here?    The  Euphuist  is  heroine? 
Roxane:    My  lord  of  Bergerac,  we  two  are  kin. 
A  Cadet:  We  will  defend  you  well! 
Roxane    {more   and    more  feverishly    excited)  :     My    friends,    I 

know  it! 
Another    {intoxicated  ivith  joy)  ;    The  whole  camp  smells  of 

orris! 
Roxane:  I  can  show  it, — 

How  well  this  hat  becomes  me  in  a  fight. 

{Looking  at  the  CouNT  OF  Guiche)  : 

Perhaps  'tis  time  the  Count  were  taking  flight ; 

The  action  might  begin. 
Guiche:  This  is  too  much.     I  am  gone 

To  inspect  the  guns.     I  shall  return  anon. 

'Tis  not  too  late.     Give  up  this  frantic  plan. 

Ah,  come  away. 
Roxane:  Never! 

(Guiche  goes  out.) 

SCENE  VI 

The  Same,  ivithout  the  Count  of  Guiche 

Christian  {imploring):  Roxane,  Roxane! 

Roxane:  No. 

First  Cadet  {to  the  others):    She  stays! 

All  {rushing  about,  jostling,  snatching)  :  My  soap!  A  razor!  Ass, 

Where  is  my  comb?    A  pin!     A  looking  glass! 
Roxane  {to  Cyrano,  who  tries  to  move  her)  : 

No  power  on  earth  can  budge  me  from  this  place. 


326  PLAYS  OF  ED  MONO  ROSTAND 

Carbon  (after  having,  like  the  rest,  brushed  his  uniform,  dusted 
his  wide  hat,  pranked  his  plume,  and  settled  his  cuffs, 
advances  toward  Roxane)  :  Will  you  permit,  of  your 
exceeding  grace, 

That  I  present  these  barons  who  adore  you. 

Who'll  have  the  honour  soon  to  die  before  you? 
Roxane  {boivs  assent  and  standing  waiting,  her  hand  on  Chris- 
tian's arm.) 
Carbon   {presents)  : 

Baron  of  Peyrescous  of  Colignac. 
The  Cadet  {saluting)  :    Madam  .    .    . 
Carbon  {continuing)  :  Of  Casterac  of  Cahuzac, 

Vidame  of  Malgouvre  of  Escarabiot, — 

Chevalier  of  Antignac,  Baron  Hillot 

Of  Castel-Crabioules  of  Salechan.   .    .    . 
Roxane:   How  many  names  has  each? 

Baron  Hillot:  Crowds, — every  man! 

Carbon  :    Open  the  hand  that  holds  your  handkerchief. 

(Roxane  opens  her  hand  and  the  handkerchief  drops.) 
Roxane:  Why? 

{Every  man  in  the  Company  stoops  to  pick  it  up.) 
Carbon  {quickly  picking  it  up  himself,  ahead  of  them  all)  : 

We  lacked  a  banner.     Now,  'tis  my  belief, 

We  have  the  bonniest  in  all  this  place. 
Roxane  {smiling)  :  'Tis  rather  tiny. 
Carbon:  But  already  lace! 

{He  attaches  the  little  handkerchief  to  his  Captain's  lance.) 
A  Cadet   {to  the  others)  :  I  could  die  happy  with  that  face  in 
sight. 

If  I  could  hand  my  stomach  just  one  bite! 
Carbon    (who   has  heard;  indignant)  : 

Shame!     "Talk  of  eating,  when  a  lovely  woman  ..." 
Roxane:    Camp  air  whets  appetite.     And,  being  human, 

I  too  am  hungry.     Pastry,  meat  and  wine, — 

Bring  me  my  breakfast,  please. 

(Consternation.) 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  327 

A  Cadet:  She  wants  to  dine! 

Another:   Good  God,  where  will  we  get  it? 

RoxANE    {serenely)  :  In    my   coach. 

All:  Hein? 

Roxane:    You  must  carve  and  serve.     As  you  approach, 

Observe  the  coachman  closely,  gentlemen ; — 

A  man  of  many  arts,  you  meet  again. 

Ask  him,  if  you  would  have  the  sauces  vary! 
The  Cadets  {running  to  the  coach)  :    It  is  Ragueneau! 

{Acclamations)  :    Oh,  oh! 
Roxane  {following  them  with  her  eyes)  :    Poor  lads! 
Cyrano  {kissing  her  hand)  :  Good  fairy! 

Ragueneau   {standing  up  on  the  coachman's  box  like  a  mounte- 
bank at  a  fair)  :   Gentlemen.    .    .    . 
The  Cadets  {wild  enthusiasm)  :    Bravo! 
Ragueneau:  As  the  foe  we  passed, 

He  knew  we  passed, — but  knew  not  what  repast! 

{Great  applause.) 
Cyrano  {whispering  to  Christian)  :  Hum  .  .   .  Christian  .  .   . 
Ragueneau:  Asked  our  aim, — learned  the  same, — 

{He  draivs  from  under  the  box-seat  a  great  platter  of  game.) 

— Yes,  heard  our  aim,  nor  knew  it  brought  down  game! 

{Applause.     The  platter  is  handed  from  hand  to  hand.) 
Cyrano  {to  Christian,  whispering)  :    One  word,  I  beg.   .    .    . 
Ragueneau  :  Venus  so  moved  his  heart, 

He  quite  forgot    .    .    . 

{He  waves  a  haunch  of  venison.)     Diana  had  a  hart. 

{Waxing  enthusiasm.      The  roast  is  seized  by   twenty   out- 
stretched hands.) 
Cyrano  {whispering  to  Christian)  :    I  want  to  tell  thee  .    .    . 
Roxane  {to  the  Cadets  who  are  coming  dou'n,  their  arms  full  of 
provisions)  :  Put  it  on  the  ground. 

{She  spreads  a  tablecloth  on  the  grass,  aided  by  tu'o  imper- 
turbable footmen  from  the  coach.) 
Roxane  {to  Christian,  as  Cyrano  tries  to  take  him  aside) : 

Come  and  be  useful. 


328  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Ragueneau  :  A  peacock. 

First  Cadet  (coming  down,  carving  a  great  dish  of  ham  as  he 
comes)  :  I'll  be  bound 

We  will  not  die  without  the  recollection 

Of  one  great  gorge.  .   .    .  Oh,  hell!   .   .   . 

{Checking  himself  at  sight  of  Roxane.)     I  mean,  refrection. 
Ragueneau  {tossing  doiun  the  carriage  cushions)  ; 

Cushions  full  of  ortolans. 

{Tumult.      They  empty  the  cushions.     Laughter.     Joy.) 
Third  Cadet:  Aha,  my  boobies! 

Ragueneau  {producing  white  wine)  :   Flagons  of  topaz! 

{Flasks  of  red  wine.)  Flagons  of  rubies! 

Roxane  {tossing  a  folded  cloth  to  Cyrano)  : 

Unfold  this  tablecloth.     Quick!     Show  more  ardor! 
Ragueneau  {flourishing  one  of  the  coach  lamps)  : 

Each  lantern  is  a  tiny  kitchen  larder. 
Cyrano  {whispering  to  Christian  as  they  spread  the  cloth,  to- 
gether) :   A  word  with  thee,  before  Roxane  has  hers! 
Ragueneau  {more  and  more  lyrical,  cracking  his  whip)  : 

No  cracker,  but  an  Arlesne  sausage,  sirs! 
Roxane  {pouring  wine  and  serving)  : 

Since  we  must  die  for  all,  'tis  fair,  you  see, 

To  feast  for  all,  Cadets  of  Gascony. 

If  the  Count  comes,  let's  offer  him  no  share. 

{Going  from  one  to  another.) 

There  still  is  time.  .  .  .  Don't  eat  so  fast  .   .   .  There,  there ! 

A  little  wine?     You  weep!     Why? 
First  Cadet:  I  am  fed! 

Roxane:  Tut  .  .  .  Red  or  white  wine?    Hand  the  Captain  bread. 

A  knife!     Your  plate!     A  bit  of  crust?     I'll  pour  you 

Champagne?    Ah,  just  tliis  wing?     Please! 
Cyrano  {who  follows  her,  his  arms  piled  high,  helping  her  serve, 

aside)  :  I  adore  you! 

Roxane  {going  toward  Christian)  :  You? 
Christian:  Nothing! 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  329 

Roxane:  This  biscuit?     Muscatelle, — 

Two  fingers? 
Christian:   Tell  me  why  you  came? 
Roxane:  I'll  tell 

You  presently.    These  poor  lads  need  me  now. 
Le  Bret  {who  has  gone  back,  to  reach  the  sentinel  on  the  ram- 
part with  half  a  loaf  of  bread  impaled  on  his  lance)  : 
The  Count  of  Guiche! 
Cyrano:    Hide  the  game-basket,  flagon,  platter,  dish! 
Quick !     Now,  look  innocent.    No  trace  of  food ! 
{To  Ragueneau)  :    Climb  to  thy  seat.     All's  hid? 
{In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  food  is  thrust  under  tent 
flaps,  stuffed  into  doublets;  under  capes;  into  hats.     The 
Count  of   Guiche   enters  hastily,  and  stops  suddenly, 
sniffing  the  air.     Silence.) 


SCENE  VII 

The  Same,  the  Count  of  Guiche 

Guiche:  Something  smells  good. 

A  Cadet  {humming  with  an  absent-minded  air)  :   To  lo  lo  .   .    . 

Guiche   {looking  at  him  critically):    What  ails  you?     You 

look  red. 
The  Cadet:    Me?    Scent  of  battle.    Joy  goes  to  my  head. 
Another:   Poum  .   .   .  poum  .   .   .  poum. 
Guiche  {turning)  :   What's  that? 
The  Cadet  {a  little  affected  by  the  wine)  :   That's  a  ballade, 

A  little   .    .    . 
Guiche:  You  are  strangely  gay,  my  lad. 

The  Cadet:  Approach  of  danger. 

Guiche  {calling  Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux  to  give  an  order) 

Captain    .    .    . 

{He  is  arrested  by  Carbon's  appearance)  Damn  my  soul, 

You  look  well,  too. 


330  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Carbon  (flushed,  and  hiding  a  bottle  behind  him,  with  an  evasive 

gesture)  :    Oh    ,    .    . 
Guiche:  I  ordered  them  to  roll 

A  cannon  5'onder.    .    .    .    'Tis  a  surplus  one. 

Your  men  may  find  a  use  for  such  a  gun. 
A  Cadet  (bowing  profoundly)  :    Charming  solicitude! 
Another  (smiling  graciously  upon  him)  :   Oh,  sweet  attention! 
Guiche:   They  are  lunatics! 

(Dryly.)  It  may  be  well  to  mention 

The  danger  of  recoil. 
First  Cadet:  Ah,  pfftt! 
Guiche  (taking  a  step  toward  him,  furious)  :    If  I  would  soil 

My  hands   .    .    . 
The  Cadet:  The  Gascons'  cannon  won't  recoil. 

Guiche  (seizing  him  by  the  arm) :  You  are  drunk!     On  what? 
The  Cadet:  Powder's  approaching  smell. 

Guiche  (shrugging  his  shoulders,  pushes  him  away  and  goes 
eagerly  to  Roxane)  :  Your  resolution,  Mistress?  Deign 
to  tell 

You  will  go. 
Roxane:  I  stay. 

Guiche:  Oh,  fly! 

Roxane:  No. 

Guiche:  Be  it  so. 

Give  me  a  musket. 
Carbon:  What? 

Guiche:  I  shall  not  go. 

Cyrano:   At  last,  my  lord,  you  give  true  courage  place. 
First  Cadet:    Is  there  a  Gascon,  underneath  his  lace? 
Roxane:  What? 

Guiche:  I'll  not  quit  a  lady  in  such  need. 

Second  Cadet  (to  the  first)  :  Say,  boy!     I  move  we  ask  him  to 
our  feed. 
(All  the  food  reappears  as  if  by  7nagic.) 
Guiche  (whose  eyes  brighten)  :   Victuals! 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  331 

A  Third  Cadet:  All  doublets  sheltered  things  to  eat. 
GuiCHE   {mastering  himself, — haughtily)  : 

You  think  that  I  will  touch  your  broken  meat? 
Cyrano  {saluting)  :    Sir,  you  progress! 
Guiche:  Fastin',  I'll  carry  on. 

{A  slight  trace  of  the  Gascon  accent  escapes  him.) 
First  Cadet  (exulting):   Fastin' I    The  accent! 
Quiche  (laughing):    Me? 
The  Cadet:  A  Gascon  born! 

(They  all  begin  a  war  dance  of  delight.) 


Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux    (who  has  disappeared  behind  the 
breastivorks  for  a  moment,  reappears  on  the  crest.) 

I  have  placed  my  pikemen,  trusty  men  and  true. 

(hie  points  to  a  line  of  pikes  passing,  beyond  the  ridge.) 
Guiche   (to  Roxane,  boning  low)  :    Will  you  come  with  me, 
for  this  last  review? 

(She  takes  his  hand  and  they  go  tip  toward  the  breastworks. 
Everybody  doffs  his  hat  and  follows.) 
Christian  (going  to  Cyrano,  hurriedly)  :    Speak  quickly! 

(As  Roxane  appears  on  the  crest  of  the  ramparts,  the  lances 
disappear,  lowered  in  salute.     A  cheer  arises.     She  bows.) 
The  Pikemen    (ivithout)  :    Vivat! 
Christian  :  Tell  thy  secret,  then. 

Cyrano:    In  case  Roxane  .    .    . 
Christian:  Well,  what? 

Cyrano:  Should  speak  again 

Of  .   .   .  letters  .   .   . 
Christian:  Yes  .    .    . 

Cyrano:  Don't  show  thy  foolishness 

Being  surprised.  .    .    . 
Christian  :  At  what  ? 

Cyrano:  O  Lord!     I  must  confess! 

It  is  quite  simple  ...  I  just  thought  .    .   .  to-day  .   .    . 

Seeing  her  .    .    .  thou  hast  .    .   . 
Christian:  Hurrv! 


332  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano:  Thou  hast,  I  say  .   .   . 

Written  more  often  than  thou  knowest. 
Christian:  What? 

Cyrano:    Damn  it!  I  swore  you'd  write!  Hast  thou  forgot? 

I  wrote  for  thee, — sometimes  not  telling  thee. 
Christian:  Ah! 
Cyrano  :  It  was  simple. 

Christian:  But  .  .  .  how  could  it  be? 

There's  the  blockade. 
Cyrano:  Oh,  before  dawn  ...  I  knew 

A  place  to  cross  their  ... 
Christian  (crossing  his  arms  on  his  breast)  :   That  was  simple, 
too? 

How  often  did  I  write?     Each  week?    Twice?    Thrice? 

Four  times? 
Cyrano  :  More. 

Christian:  Every  day? 

Cyrano:  Why  .    .   .  each  day  .   .   .  twice. 

Christian  (violently)  :  And  they  so  moved  thee, — were  so 
strong  to  stir, 

They  made  thee  face  death   .    .    .    ? 
Cyrano  (seeing  Roxane,  who  comes  down) : 

'Sh.     Not  before  her! 

(He  hurriedly  re-enters  his  tent.) 

SCENE  vni 

Roxane,  Christian;  in  the  background,  passing  and  repassing, 
the  Cadets;  GuiCHE  and  Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux, 
who  give  orders. 

Roxane  (running  to  Christian):    Christian!     Oh,  now   .    .    . 
Christian  (taking  her  hands  in  his)  :   And  now,  Oh  tell  me  why 

Thou  earnest   .    .    .    found  the  boldness  to  defy 

The  cruel  road,  the  ranks  of  rowdy  reiters, 

And  come  to  me.    Ah,  why? 
Roxane:  It  was  .   .   .  the  letters! 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  333 

Christian  :  Thou  sayst   .    .    .    ? 

Roxane:  Thy  letters  made  me  reckless,  bold; 

They  made  me  face  these  perils  manifold. 

Ah,  think  how  many  you  have  sent,  my  love. 

Always  more  beautiful. 
Christian  :  Could  letters  move 

Thee  so  ?  .  .  . 
Roxane:  Thou  knowest  not  their  power. 

I  have  adored  tliee  since  that  magic  hour 

Under  my  window,  when  a  new  voice  cried 

And  showed  the  soul  thou  wast  so  fain  to  hide. 

Ah,  well, — thy  letters  for  a  month  all  breathe 

The  sweetness  of  that  night, — the  jasmine  wreathe 

— The  enfolding  tenderness!     My  lover, — see, 

I  could  not  choose  but  come!     Penelope 

Would  not  have  tarried  at  her  tapistry 

Had  Lord  Ulysses  writ,  as  thou  to  me. 

She  would  have  tossed  her  woollen  balls  aside, 

And  sped,  like  Helen,  to  her  lover's  side! 
Christian:    But   .    .    . 
Roxane:    I  read  and  read  again.     Joy  mixed  with  grief; 

I  was  with  thee.    And  every  written  leaf 

Was  like  a  petal  wafted  from  thy  soul; — 

Each  word,  a  flame ; — a  living  fire,  the  whole. 

Of  love,  sincere  and  strong! 
Christian:  Strong?  .    .    .  And  sincere? 

That  could  be  felt,  Roxane? 
Roxane:  Ah,  yes,  my  dear! 

Christian  :  And  so  you  came.  .   .   . 
Roxane:  I  came!     (Christian,  my  king, 

My  love,  you'd  lift  me  up  if  I  should  fling 

Myself  low  at  your  feet.     So  there  I  lay 

My  soul  which  always  at  your  feet  shall  stay.) 

I  come  to  seek  thy  pardon.     (Meet  and  right 

To  ask  forgiveness,  having  death  in  sight!) 


334  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

That  at  the  first,  in  my  frivolity, 

I  loved  thy  beauty,  so  insulting  thee. 
Christian  (horrified):   Ah,  Roxane! 
Roxane:  Later,  learning  greater  things, 

— A  bird  that  flutters,  ere  it  trusts  its  wings, — 

Thy  beauty  bound  me,  and  thy  spirit  drew. 

I  loved  thee,  then,  for  both. 
Christian:  And  now?     Speak  true! 

Roxane:    Ah,  now  thyself  thyself  has  overthrown. 

At  last  I  love  thee  for  thy  soul  alone ! 
Christian  {starting  back)  \   Ah!     Roxane! 
Roxane:  So,  be  happy.     To  be  loved 

For  fleshly  garments  that  can  be  removed. 

To  a  great  spirit  were  a  conquest  mean. 

I  have  forgot  thy  face,  thy  soul  being  seen. 

Thy  beauty  won  me.    .    .    .   It  is  all  forgot! 

I  see  thee  better, — and  I  see  thee  not. 
Christian  :   Oh ! 

Roxane:  Dost  thou  doubt  a  triumph  so  complete? 

Christian  {dolorously):   Roxane! 
Roxane:  I  know!     Is  such  a  love  too  sweet 

For  thy  belief? 
Christian:  I  do  not  want  such  love! 

I  want  to  be  loved  just  for   .    .    . 
Roxane:  Just  to  prove 

All  women  love  alike  a  handsome  face? 

Mourn  not  the  old  love  !     Give  a  better,  place ! 
Christian:    The  old  love  was  the  best. 
Roxane:  Nay,  nay,  I  tell 

Now  I  love  better, — now  T  first  love  well! 

'Tis  what  thy  soul  has  built  that  I  adore. 

Less  beautiful.    .    .    . 
Christian:  Hush! 

Roxane:  T  sliould  love  thee  more! 

Though  all  thy  beauty  in  the  flesh  were  gone.  .    .    . 
Christian:  Oli,  don't  say  tliat! 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  335 

Roxane:  Nay,  but  I  must  say  on! 

Christian:  Ugly? 

Roxane:  I  swear  it! 

Christian:  God! 

Roxane:  Is  joy  so  great? 

Christian  {in  a  choking  voice) :   Yes.   .    .    . 

Roxane:   What  ails  thee? 

Christian  :  Naught.    A  word  to  someone.     Wait. 

Roxane:   But  .    .    . 

Christian   {pointing  to  a  group  of  Cadets  in  the  background)  : 
I  took  thee  from  them, — and  they  need  thee  so, — 
Thy  smile  to  light  their  dying,  Roxane, — Go! 

Roxane  {deeply  moved)  :   Dear  Christian! 

(She    goes    toward    the    Gascons,    who    respectfully    crowd 
around  her.) 

SCENE  IX 

Christian,  Cyrano;  in  the  background,  Roxane  talking  gaily 
to  Carbon  and  some  of  the  Cadets 

Christian  {toward  Cyrano's  tent)  :   Cyrano? 
Cyrano   {comes  out,  equipped  for  the  approaching  battle)  : 

Thou  art  pale.     What  moves 

Thee,  lad? 
Christian  :         She  doesn't  love  me ! 
Cyrano:  What! 

Christian:  'Tis  thee  she  loves. 

Cyrano :   No ! 

Christian:   She  only  loves  my  soul! 
Cyrano :  No ! 

Christian:  Yes,  sir! 

'Tis  thee  she  loves,  .   .    .  and  thou,  thou  lovest  her! 
Cyrano :    I ? 
Christian:    I  know  it. 
Cyrano  :  Truth. 

Christian:  To  madness. 


336  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano  :  More. 

Christian  :  God  His  grace, 

Tell  her! 
Cyrano:   No! 

Christian:        Why,  why  not? 
Cyrano:  Look  at  my  face! 

Christian  :   She  would  love  me  ugly ! 
Cyrano:  She  said  that? 

Christian:  Just  that. 

Cyrano  :  Ah,  I  am  glad  that  she  could  tell  you  that ! 

But  don't  believe  this  madness.    It  is  naught. 

— God !    I  am  glad  that  she  has  had  that  thought ! — 

— Could  say  that ! — But  go,  lad,  for  words  are  light. 

Don't  become  plain.    She'd  owe  me  much  despite. 
Christian  :   I  am  going  to  see ! 
Cyrano:  No! 

Christian  :  — Learn  what  she  really  meant. 

Thou  shalt  tell  her  all. 
Cyrano:  Oh,  not  this  punishment! 

Christian:  I,  kill  thy  happiness, — because  I  come 

To  earth  well-favoured  ? 
Cyrano:  Put  thine  in  the  tomb, 

I, — being  favoured  by  this  circumstance 

I  can  express  .   .   .  what  thou  canst  feel,  perchance? 
Christian  :  Tell  her. 

Cyrano:  He  tempts  me  still,  the  devil  or  his  elf! 

Christian:    I  am  tired  of  being  rival  to  myself! 
Cyrano:    Christian! 
Christian  :  Our  secret  union  scarce  exists, 

— If  we  live,  can  be  broken.   .    .    . 
Cyrano:  He  persists! 

Christian  :  I  will  be  loved  myself,  or  not  at  all. 

We've  got  to  see.     Stay  here.     I  am  going  to  call 

Roxane.    Then  I'll  walk  to  the  end 

Of  the  guard-station.     Speak  to  her,  my  friend. 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  337 

I  shall  return.    And  so,  at  last,  we'll  know 

Which  of  us  two. 
Cyrano:  'Tis  thou! 

Christian  :  But  ...  I  hope  so. 

{He  calls.)      Roxane! 
Cyrano:  No!    No! 

Roxane  {running):  What? 

Christian:  Cyrano  will  say 

Something  you  ought  to  hear. 

{She  goes  eagerly  to  Cyrano.    Christian  goes  out.) 

SCENE  X 

Roxane,  Cyrano;  later,  Le  Bret,  Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux, 
the  Cadets,  Ragueneau,  the  Count  of  Guiche,  etc. 

Roxane:  Something?  .   .   . 

Cyrano  {wildly) :   He's  gone  away! 

{To  Roxane)  Nothing.    He  gives  .  .  .  You  know  him,  so 
you  know 

He  gives  importance  to  just  nothing. 
Roxane:  Oh! 

He  doubts  what  I  have  told  him?     I  could  see   .    .    . 
Cyrano  {taking  her  hand) :   Roxane,  was  what  you  told  him 

verity? 
Roxane:  Yes,  I  would  love  him  were  he  .  .  . 

{She  hesitates.) 
Cyrano  {smiling  sorrowfully) :  You  are  fain 

,To  shirk  that  word.   ... 
Roxane:  But  .  .  . 

Cyrano:  It  will  not  give  me  pain. 

Even  ugly? 
Roxane:  Even  ugly! 

{A  sound  of  musket  fire,  without.)      Hark!  We  are  stormed! 
Cykaso  {ardently)  :   Frightful? 
Roxane:  Frightful. 


338  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano:  Even  deformed? 

RoxANE :  Deformed. 

Cyrano  :    Grotesque  ? 

RoxANE :  Never  grotesque  to  me. 

Cyrano:  You  would  love  him  still? 

Roxane:  And  still  more  ardently! 

Cyrano  (aside j  madly):    My  God!     'Tis  true!     And  happiness 
has  come! 

(Aloud,  to  Roxane)  :   Listen,  Roxane  .    .    . 
Le  Bret  (entering  hastily  and  speaking  in  a  whisper)  :    Cyrano! 
Cyrano  (turning)'.  Hein? 
Le  Bret  (putting  his  finger  on  his  lips) :  Be  dumb. 

(He  speaks  a  few  words  in  a  whisper.) 
Cyrano  (letting  go  of  Roxane's  hand  and  uttering  a  cry) :  Ah! 
Roxane:  What  troubles  you? 

Cyrano  (stupefied;  aside)  :   'Tis  finished! 

(New  volleys  of  musketry  and  detonation  of  artillery.) 
Roxane:  Firing!    The  din!    The  reek 

Of  smoke! 

(She  goes  up  to  see  what  is  taking  place.) 
Cyrano  :  Aye,  it  is  finished !     I  can  never  speak ! 
Roxane  (trying  to  press  forward)  :  What  passes? 
Cyrano   (holding  her  back)  :  Nothing! 

(The  Cadets  enter,  carrying  something  which  they  conceal 
from  Roxane,  standing  closely  in  a  group  about  this  bur- 
den.) 
Roxane:  These  men  .   .  .   ? 

Cyrano  (leading  her  aside)  :  Come  away! 

Roxane:    What  were  you  going  to  say? 
Cyrano:  I  .   .   .  going  to  say? 

Nothing.     I  swear  it.     I  abjure  the  whole. 

(Solemnly)  I  swear  that  Christian'  s  spirit,  that  his  soul  .   .  . 

Was  .    .    . 

(He  catches  himself,  terrified.)     is   .    .    .   the  noblest  .    .    . 
Roxane:  Was? 

(PFith  a  wild  cry)  Ah! 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  339 

{She  rushes  forivard,  scattering  the  group  that  tries  to  inter- 
cept her.) 
Cyrano:  It  is  done! 

RoxANE  {seeing  Christian,  lying  on  his  cloak):    Christian! 
Le  Bret  {to  Cyrano)  :  Their  first  shot  .   .    .  .'uui  the  only  one. 
(RoxANE  throws  herself  on  Christian's  body.    There  is  re- 
newed firing.     Clank  of  arms.     Rattle  of  guns.     Drums.) 
Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux  {sword  in  hand) :  'Tis  the  attack. 
To  arms! 
{Followed  by  the  Cadets  he  goes  over  the  top  of  the  breast- 
works.) 
Roxane:    Christian! 

Voice  of  Carbon  {beyond  the  fortifications)  :  Double  time! 
Roxane:  Christian! 
Carbon:  Fall  in! 

Roxane:  Christian! 

Carbon:  Measure!    Prime! 

(Ragueneau  has  run  in,  carrying  water  in  a  helmet.) 
Christian  {in  a  dying  voice)  :   Roxane! 

Cyrano  {quick  and  low  in  Christian's  ear,  zvhile  Roxane 
frantically  tears  a  bit  of  linen  from  her  breast  and  dampens 
it  in  the  water  Ragueneau  has  brought)  :  'Tis  thee  she 
loves,  thee  only! 

She  has  said! 
(Christian  closes  his  eyes.) 
Roxane:   Ah,  what,  my  love? 
Carbon  :  Ramrods! 

Roxane  {to  Cyrano)  :  He  is  not  .   .   .  dead? 

Carbon:   Load!  Ready!  Aim! 

Roxane:  Cold,  to  the  touch 

His  cheek  against  my  own!     Cold,  cold  to  .    .    . 
Carbon:  Touch! 

Roxane:   A  letter  here  .    .    . 

(She  opens  it.)  For  me! 

Cyrano  {aside) :  My  letter ! 


340  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Carbon  :  Fire! 

{Musket  fire.     Shouts.     Clash  of  battle.) 
Cyrano  {tries  to  free  his  hand,  which  Roxane  clutches,  as  she 

kneels)  :    Roxane,  they  are  fighting! 
Roxane  {clinging  to  him)  :  Pity  my  desire, 

One  moment !    He  is  dead.    You  knew  his  heart ! 

{She  weeps  gently.)     Was  he  not  exquisite, — a  soul  apart, 

Marvelous? 
Cyrano   {standing,  head  uncovered) :    Yes,  Roxane. 
Roxane:  More  than  words  can  express, 

A  poet  .    .    .    ? 
Cyrano:  Yes,  Roxane. 

Roxane:  Pure  spirit? 

Cyrano  :  Yes, 

Roxane ! 
Roxane  :  A  heart  profound,  beyond  earth's  common  span, 

A  soul  sublime  and  charming? 
Cyrano  {earnestly):  Yes,  Roxane! 

Roxane  {throwing  herself  on  Christian's  body)  : 

He  is  dead! 
Cyrano  {aside,  drawing  his  sword) :    I'd  die  ere  day  grows  dim, 

Since  all  unknowing  she  mourns  me  in  him. 

{Trufnpets  in  the  distance.) 
The  Count  of  Guiche   {appears  on  the  ramparts,  bareheaded, 
wounded  in  the  forehead;  calling  in  a  ringing  voice)  : 

Fanfare  of  brasses !     'Tis  the  signal  sealed ! 

The  French  with  food  returning  to  the  field! 

Hold  the  line,  yet ! 
Roxane:  Upon  his  letter,  stains, 

Blood, — tears! 
A  Voice  {without):  Surrender! 
Voices  OF  THE  Cadets:  No! 

Ragueneau    {who   has  climbed   on   the   coachman's   box  and  is 
watching  the  engagement)  :  The  Spaniard  gains! 

Cyrano  {to  the  Count,  indicating  Roxane)  : 

Take  her!    I  am  going  to  charge! 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  341 

RoXANE  (kissing  the  letter  and  speaking  in  a  faint  voice)  : 

His  letter,  sealed 
With  tears  and  blood ! 
Ragueneau   (leaping  from  his  high  seat  to  run  to  her)  : 

She's  fainting! 
GuiCHE   (on  the  ramparts,  to  the  Cadets,  raging)  :    Hold  hard! 
A  Voice  (without)  :  Yield! 

Voices  of  Cadets:   No! 
Cyrano  (to  Guiche)  :  You  have  proved  your  valour,  sir.    Take 

her  away! 
Guiche  (who  runs  to  Roxane  and  lifts  her  in  his  arms)  : 
So  be  it.     Hold  them!    We  have  gained  the  day 
If  you  gain  time! 
Cyrano:  Why,  good! 

(Crying  out  to  RoxANE,  as  the  CouNT  OF  GuiCHE,  aided  by 
Ragueneau,  carries  her  off,  fainting)  : 

Farewell,  Roxane! 
(A  deafening  din.   Cries.    Tumult.     Cadets  appear,  wounded, 
falling.    Cyrano,  rushing  to  the  battle,  is  arrested  on  the 
crest  of  the  earthworks  by  Castel-Jaloux,  who  is  cov- 
ered with  blood.) 
Carbon:   We  waver!     I've  two  gun-shots,  partisan. 
Cyrano  (calling  to  the  Cadets)  :    Hardily,  lads!     No  budging! 
(To  Carbon,  whom  he  supports  in  his  arms)  :  Have  no  fear! 
I  have  tvvo  deaths  to  avenge,  to-day  and  here, — 
Christian's   .    .    .    My  happiness! 

(They  come  down.     Cyrano  seizes  the  lance  to  ivhich  is  fas- 
tened Roxane's  handkerchief.)      Float,  little  flag! 
(He  plants  it  in  the  ground,  and  calls  to  the  Cadets.) 
Rally,  boys!     Smash  them! 
(To  the  Fifer)   Play!     The  fife! 
(To  the  Cadets)  Don't  lag! 

(  The  Fifer  plays.  The  wounded  struggle  to  their  feet.  The 
Cadets  swarming  up  the  ramparts  group  themselves  around 
Cyrano  and  the  little  flag.    The  Coach  is  covered  with 


342  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

men;  it  bristles  with  arquebuses;  it  is  transformed  into  a 
redoubt.) 
A  Cadet  {retreating,  appears  on  the  crest  of  the  fortification,  still 
fighting;  he  cries)  :   They  climb  the  ramparts! 
(He  falls,  dead.) 
Cyrano:  We'll  salute  our  guests! 

( The  ramparts  are  suddenly  croiufied  with  terrible  ranks  of 
the  enemy.      The  great  Imperial  standard  is  raised.) 
Cyrano  :   Fire ! 

(Firing  all  along  the  ragged  line.) 
Orders  in  the  Enemy's  Ranks:   Fire! 

(A  murderous  ripost.  The  Cadets  fall  on  every  side.) 
A  Spanish  Officer  (uncovering)  : 

What  men  are  these  who  hug  death  to  their  breasts? 
Cyrano  (declaiming,  erect  amid  a  storm  of  lead)  : 
These  are  Gascony's  darling  Cadets 
Of  Carbon  of  Castel-Jaloux ; 
Brazen  braggarts,  each  man  of  them  bets  .   .   . 
(He  hurls  himself  forward,  followed  by  a  handful  of  sur- 
vivors. ) 
They  are  Gascony's  darling  .   .   . 
(The  rest  is  lost  in  the  tumult  of  battle.) 

(Curtain) 


ACT  V 
Cyrano's  Gazette 

Fifteen  years  later.  1635.  Park  of  the  Convent  occupied  by 
the  Ladies  of  the  Cross,  at  Paris. 

Superb  shadoivs.  On  the  Left,  the  house,  with  a  vast  fligJit  of 
steps,  several  doors  opening  upon  it. 

In  the  middle  of  the  scene  stands  a  huge  tree,  solitary  in  the 
centre  of  a  little  oval  space. 

On  the  Right,  among  tall  box  trees,  a  semi-circular  stone  bench. 

The  background  is  traversed  by  a  walk  overarched  by  chestnut 
trees;  this  leads  to  a  chapel  door.  Right,  seen  through  the  branches 
of  the  trees.  Beyond  the  double  curtain  of  these  trees,  there  are 
glimpses  of  lawn,  Tnore  shaded  walks,  thickets,  the  reaches  of  the 
park;  the  sky. 

A  little  side  door  of  the  chapel  opens  upon  a  colonnade  en- 
garlanded  with  reddening  Autumn  vines.  In  the  Right  foreground, 
this  is  lost  behind  the  box  hedge. 

It  is  Autumn.  Above  the  pure  green  of  the  turf,  all  the  leafage 
is  sere  and  brown. 

The  evergreen  masses  of  box  and  yeiu  stand  out  darkly. 

A  heap  of  yellow  leaves  lies  under  each  tree.  Leaves  are  falling 
everywhere.  They  rustle  under  foot.  They  half  cover  the  en- 
trance steps  and  lie  on  the  stone  benches. 

Between  the  bench  on  the  Right  and  the  Tree  is  a  tall  em- 
broidery frame,  in  front  of  zchich  a  liitle  sewing  chair  has  been 
placed. 

There  are  baskets  full  of  silken  skeins  and  woollen  balls. 

A  piece  of  tapistry  begun. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  the  sisters  come  and  go  in  the  park. 

Some  of  them  are  sitting  on  the  stone  bench,  around  an  older 
nun.     The  leaves  fall  alzuays. 

343 


344  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

SCENE  I 

Mother  Margaret,  Sister  Martha,  Sister  Claire, 

the  Sisters 

Sister  Martha  (to  Mother  Margaret)  : 

She  looked  twice — Sister  Claire  did — in  the  glass 

To  set  her  cornet  straight. 
Mother  Margaret  (to  Sister  Claire)  :  That's  wrong.    Alas! 
Sister  Claire:   But  I  saw  Sister  Martha  take  a  plum 

Out  of  the  tart. 
Mother  Margaret  (to  Sister  Martha)  :  Oh,  that  was  ugly. 

Come! 
Sister  Claire:   A  little  glance! 
Sister  Martha:  The  littlest  of  plums! 
Mother  Margaret:   Sir  Cyrano  shall  hear  it  when  he  comes. 
Sister  Claire  (dismayed)  :   No!     He  would  tease  us,  Mother, 

if  you  should ! 
Sister  Martha:   "Nuns  are  so  vain," 
Sister  Claire:  "So  greedy," 

Mother  Margaret  (smiling)  :  "And  so  good." 

Sister  Claire  :   Is  it  true,  Mother  Margaret,  of  Jesus, 

He  has  come  these  ten  years  .  .  .   ? 
Mother  Margaret  :  More  than  that.    He  sees  us 

Each  week  since  first  his  cousin  came  to  wear 

Her  sable  mourning  midst  our  linen  fair, 

Seeking  this  shelter  fourteen  years  ago, 

A  stately  blackbird  midst  my  birds  of  snow. 
Sister  Martha  :   He  only,  since  she  came  to  be  our  guest. 

Lightens  the  grief  that  never  quits  her  breast. 
All  the  Sisters  :  He  is  so  droll ! 

So  merry ! 

He  can  tell 

Such  tales!     He  teases  us  I 

We  love  him  well! 
We  make  him  tartlets. 

Oh,  I  love  to  stick 
Them  full  of  plums! 


CYRANO  Of  BERGERAC  345 

Sister  Martha:  He's  a  poor  Catholic. 

Sister  Claire:  We  will  convert  him! 

The  Sisters:  Yes!  Yes! 

Mother  Margaret:  Children,  no. 

I  must  forbid  you  to  torment  him  so. 

He  might  come  less.     Remember  this  command. 
Sister  Martha:  But  .  .  .  God  .  .   . 
jM other  Margaret  {tranquilly)  :    God  knows  him.     God  will 

understand. 
Sister  Martha:   But  every  Saturday  to  hear  him  say, 

"Sister,  A-ha,  I  ate  flesh  yesterday." 
Mother  Margaret:    He  tells  you  that?    Well,  when  he  said 
it  last 

For  two  whole  days  he  had  not  broken  fast. 
Sister  IVIartha:    Mother! 
Mother  Margaret:  Yes,  he  is  poor. 

Sister  Martha:  Who  told  you? 

Mother  Margaret:  His  good  friend 

My  lord  Le  Bret. 
Sister  Martha:        Nobody  helps  him? 
Mother  Margaret:  None.     It  would  offend. 

{In  a  shaded  walk  in  the  background,  Roxane  appears,  robed 
in  black  and  wearing  a  widow's  cap  and  long  veil.  The 
Count  of  Guiche,  magnificent,  and  aging,  icalks  at  her 
side.  They  come  down  slowly.  Mother  Margaret 
rises)  : 

Let  us  go  in.     The  Lady  ALideleine 

Walks  in  the  park  with  visitors. 
Sister  Martha  (whispering  to  Sister  Claire)  :  I'd  fain 

Know  is't  the  Marshall  Duke  of  Gramont? 
Sister  Claire  {looking  and  nodding)  :  So. 

Sister  Martha:  The  last  time  that  he  came  was  months  ago. 
Sister  Claire:   He  is  so  busy, — court, — camp  .   .   . 
Sister  Martha:  Worldly  care! 

( They  go  out.  Guiche  and  Roxane  come  down  in  silence. 
They  stop  near  the  tapistry  frame.    A  pause.) 


346  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

SCENE  II 

RoxANE,  the  Duke  of  Gramont,  once  Count  of  Guiche; 
later,  Le  Bret,  Ragueneau 

The  Duke:    So  j^ou  abide  here,  always,  vainly  fair, 

Still  mourning? 
Roxane:  Always. 

The  Duke:  Faithful  still? 

Roxane  :  Always. 

The  Duke  (after  a  tnoment's  silence)  :  You  have  pardoned  me? 
Roxane:  Yes,  in  this  holy  place. 

{Silence  again  falls  between  them.) 
The  Duke:  Was  he  in  truth  a  being  .  .  .  ? 
Roxane  :  Could  you  know  I 

The  Duke:  Could  I  .  .   .  Perhaps  I  failed  there,  long  ago. 

Still  his  last  letter  next  j^our  heart  is  stored? 
Roxane:   Sweet  scapulary  on  this  velvet  cord. 
The  Duke:  Even  dead,  you  love  him? 
Roxane:  Sometimes.     Oh,  meseems 

He  is  but  half  dead.     Through  my  life  it  beams, 

His  living  love,  a  shelter,  a  caress. 
The  Duke   {after  another  interval  of  silence)  : 

Cyrano  come  to  see  you  ? 
Roxane:  Often,  yes. 

This  old  friend  takes  the  place  of  my  gazettes. 

— And  is  as  regular.     A  Sister  sets 

His  armchair  where  j'ou  stand,  beneath  this  tree. 

I  sew,  and  wait.    The  hour  strikes.    There  will  be 

— I  do  not  even  turn  my  head ! — his  cane 

Upon  the  steps.     He  sits  down,  mocks  again 

My  endless  tapistry;  then  day  by  day 

Gives  the  weeks'  chronicle. 

(Le  Bret  appears  on  the  steps.)  Ah,  see!    Le  Bret! 

(Le  Bret  comes  down.)     How  fares  our  friend? 
Le  Bret:  111. 

The  Duke:  Oh! 

Roxane  {to  the  Duke)  :  Exaggerated! 


CYRANO  OF  BERCERAC  347 

Le  Bret:   I  told  him  so!    Abandoned,  poor,  and  hated, — 

Still  his  epistles  make  new  enemies. 

He  fights  the  world  entire, — hypocrisies. — 

Pietists, — plagiarists, — all  earthly  error. 
Roxane:  Ahvajs  his  sword  inspires  such  mortal  terror 

No  man  will  face  it.     He  is  safe. 
The  Duke  {shakuKj  his  head)  :  Who  knows? 

Le  Bret:   I  fear  not  men  but  those  more  subtle  foes, 

Solitude,  Famine,  graying  gaunt  December, 

Entering  with  wolfish  tread  his  dismal  chamber. 

By  these  assassins  deadliest  blows  are  dealt. 

— Each  day  he  takes  a  hole  up  in  his  belt. 

His  poor  big  nose  looks  like  old  ivory. 

One  thin  black  suit  of  serge  on  earth  has  he. 
The  Duke:   Not  Fortune's  favourite,  truly,  but — Gadzook 

Pity  him  not  too  much. 
Le  Bret  (luitli  a  hitter  smile)  :  My  Lord,  the  Duke  .   .   . 

The  Duke:   Pity  him  not  too  much!    Unbound  by  pacts, 

He  keeps  his  freedom, — thoughts  no  less  than  acts. 
Le  Bret:  Lord  Marshall  .   .   , 

The  Duke  {haughtily)  :   Yes,  he  has  naught;  I,  all ;— I  under- 
stand,— 

Yet  I  were  very  fain  to  take  his  hand. 

(Bowing  to  Roxane.)     Good-bye. 
Roxane  :  Let  me  conduct  you  .  .  . 

(The  Duke  bows  to  Le  Bret  and  with  Roxane  walks 
towards  the  steps.) 
The  Duke:  Envious  .  .  .  Yes! 

Sometimes,  when  one  has  made  his  life's  success, 

One  feels, — not  finding,  God  knows,  much  amiss, — 

A  thousand  small  distastes,  whose  sum  is  this; 

Not  quite  remorse,  but  an  obscure  disorder. 

One's  ducal  robes  drag  always  on  their  border. 

While  on  life's  stair  a  mounting  foot  one  sets, 

A  stir  of  lost  illusions,  dry  regrets. 

As,  while  you  mount  these  steps,  the  ear  perceives 

Your  robes  of  mourning  rustle  dying  leaves. 


348  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

RoXANE  (ironically):  You, — become  dreamer? 

The  Duke:  Eh  .  .  .  Yes! 

(As  he  is  going  out,  he  turns  abruptly.)  Le  Bret! 

{To  Roxane)  :  With  your  consent  .  .  .  One  word. 

{He  goes  to  Le  Bret  and  speaks  in  a  low  voice.) 

True,  no  one  dares  to  meet  him,  yet  I've  heard 

How  many  hate  your  friend.     And  yesterday 

I  caught  this  bit,  at  Court, — we  were  at  play, — 

"An  accident  might  kill  this  Cyrano." 
Le  Bret;  Ah? 

The  Duke:        Bid  him  keep  close  at  home  ...  be  prudent. 
Le  Bret  {raising  his  arms  to  heaven)  :  Oh! 

Prudent!     I'll  go  to  warn  him,  but  .    .    . 
Roxane  {who  has  remained  on  the  steps,  to  a  Sister  zvho  comes 
to  her)  :  What  is  it? 

The  Sister:   IMay  Ragueneau  see  you,  Madame? 
Roxane  :  Yes. 

{To  the  Duke  and  Le  Bret.)  This  visit 

Will  be  a  tale  of  woe.    Once  on  a  time 

Ragueneau  was  poet.     Since  that  role  sublime 

He  has  been  .   .  . 
Le  Bret:  Beadle  .    .    . 

Roxane:  Actor  .   ,   . 

Le  Bret:  Bath-house-man  .  .  . 

Roxane:  Wig-maker  .   .  . 
LeBret:  Archlute  teacher  .  .  . 
Roxane:  What  new  plan 

Brings  him  to-day? 
Ragueneau   {enters  precipitately)  :    Madam  .    .   . 

{He  sees  Le  Bret.)  Sir  ...   I 

Roxane  {smiling)  :  Recount  your  woes 

To  him.    I  shall  return. 
Ragueneau:   But  Madam  .    .    . 

(Roxane  does  not  hear  him;  she  goes  out  with  the  Duke. 
Ragueneau  goes  down  to  Le  Bret.) 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  349 

SCENE  III 
Le  Bret,  Ragueneau 

Ragueneau:  I  suppose 

You  being  here,  it's  best  she  shouldn't  know. 

— I  went  to  see  your  friend  a  while  ago. 

Not  twenty  paces  from  his  house,  I  spied 

Him  coming  out.     I  meant  to  reach  his  side. 

He  turned  the  corner,  and  I  ran.     A  glance 

Showed  from  a  window  .    .    ,  accident, — perchance, — 

A  lackey  dropped  a  heavy  chunk  of  wood. 
Le  Bret:   The  cowards!    Cyrano! 

Ragueneau  :  I  came  ...  I  stood  .   .   . 

Le  Bret:  Oh! 
Ragueneau:  By  our  friend,  our  poet.     Running  red 

Upon  the  ground,  blood  streamed  from  his  poor  head. 
Le  Bret:  He  is  .  .  .  dead? 
Ragueneau:  No,  but  .   .  .  God!    I  got  him  home, — 

Lord !  what  a  place  for  such  a  man  to  come. 
Le  Bret:  He  suffers? 

Ragueneau  :  No,  no,  sir  .  .  .     He  didn't  wake. 

Le  Bret:   A  leech?  .   .   . 

Ragueneau  :  One  came,  sir,  for  sweet  pity's  sake. 

Le  Bret  :  Oh,  my  poor  Cyrano !    We  must  not  tell 

Roxane  too  suddenly.    This  doctor  .   .   .    ? 
Ragueneau:  Well, 

He  talked  ...  of  fever  .   .   .  and  of  meninges  .   .    . 

— Oh,  his  poor  head  in  linen  bandages! 

Come!     Let  us  run!     His  pillow's  all  untended. 

And  if  he  tries  to  move  .   ,   .  then  all  is  ended. 
Le  Bret  {leading  him  to  the  Right)  :   This  way  is  shortest  .    .   . 

by  the  chapel.  .   ,  .  See. 
Roxane  (appearing  on  the  steps  and  seeing  Le  Bret  disappear- 
ing by  the  colonnade  which  leads  to  the  side  door  of  the 
chapel)  :  My  lord  Le  Bret! 


350  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

(Le  Bret  and  Ragueneau  run   on,  without  answering.) 

Dear  me ! 
Our  Ragueneau  must  have  a  woeful  story. 
{She  comes  down  the  steps.) 

SCENE  IV 
Roxane,  alone;  later,  tivo  Sisters  for  a  moment 

Roxane:    September's  closing  day  Is  full  of  glory. 

My  sadness  smiles.     April  too  dazzling  beams. 

Autumn  more  gently  blends  with  wistful  dreams. 

{She  sits  doivn  to  her  embroidery.  Two  Sisters  coming  out 
of  the  house  carry  a  large  armchair  and  put  it  under  the  big 
tree.)     Here  is  the  classic  armchair,  where  shall  rest 

My  old  friend. 
Sister  Martha:  It's  the  parlour's  very  best. 

Roxane:  Thank  you,  my  Sister. 

{The  Sisters  go  out.) 

He  comes.  .    .    .    The  hour  sounds.  .   .    . 

— My  skeins. — The  hour  has  struck.     Nay,  this  astounds, 

What!     For  the  first  time  will  he  now  be  late? 

My  thimble.  .  .   .  There !  .  .  .  The  Sister  at  the  gate 

Must  be  exhorting  him.  .  .   . 

{Time  passes.)  Past  all  belief. 

.   .   .  He'll  not  delay.  .  .   .  Hist!  No  ...  a  falling  leaf. 

{She  brushes  aivay  a  dead  leaf  that  has  fallen  on  her  work.) 

.  .  .  My  scissors?    In  my  bag!    What  holds  him  back? 

Nothing  could  keep  .   .   . 
A  Sister  {appearing  on  the  steps)  : 

My  lord  of  Bergerac. 

SCENE  V 

Roxane,  Cyrano,  and  for  a  moment,  Sister  Martha 

Roxane  {unthout  turning):  What  did  I  say? 

{She  works  at  her  tapistry.  Cyrano,  very  pale,  his  plumed 
hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  enters.     The  Sister  ivho  an- 


CYRJNO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  351 

nounced  him   disappears.      He   begins   to    come   doivn    the 
steps,  sloivly  and  making  an  evident  effort  to  hold  himself 
erect.     He  bears  heavily  on  his  cane.     RoXANE  works  dili- 
gently.) 
Roxane:  Tut!  This  shade  appears 

Too  light  .  .   .  'tis  faded. 

{To  Cyrano,  in  a  tone  of  amicable  reproach.)     After  four- 
teen years, 
Late,  for  the  first  time! 
Cyrano  {who  has  reached  his  armchair  and  sat  down,  speaking  in 
a  cheerful  voice  that  contrasts  sharply  with  his  appearance)  : 

Yes.    Lord,  I  am  vexed. 
Delayed  .    ,    .   and  bless  my  soul,  on  what  pretext! 
Roxane:   By  ...    ? 

Cyrano:  By  a  visitor  most  loath  to  wait. 

Roxane  {absent-mindedly;  working)  :    Unwelcome? 
Cyrano:  No  .   .   .  but  too  importunate. 

Roxane:  You  sent  him  off? 

Cyrano  :  Yes.    I  was  bold  to  say, 

Your  pardon  but  to-day  is  Saturday. 
I  am  expected.     'Tis  not  in  your  power 
To  make  me  fail  her.     Meet  me  in  an  hour! 
Roxane  {lightly)  : 

We'll  keep  him  waiting  if  so  soon  he  calls. 
I  shall  not  let  you  go  till  evening  falls. 
Cyrano:  It  may  be,  he  will  not  so  long  delay. 

{He  closes  his  eyes  and  is  silent  for  a  rnoment.) 
(Sister  Martha  crosses  the  turf  from  the  chapel.     She  is 
going  toward  the  steps.) 
Roxane  {to  Cyrano)  :  Not  teasing  Sister  Martha? 
Cyrano  {starting,  and  opening  his  eyes)  :   Yes. 

{Calling  in  a  jocular  voice.)  Sister!     Hey! 

(Sister  Martha  comes  softly  up.) 
Those  pretty  eyes  still  looking  at  your  feet? 
Sister  Martha  {raising  her  eyes  and  smiling)  :   But  .   .   , 

{She  looks  at  him  and  makes  a  startled  gesture.)     Oh  !  .    .    . 
Cyrano  {putting  his  finger  on  his  lips  and  indicating  Roxane)  : 


352  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

'Sh,  it  is  nothing, 

{In  a  loud  voice.)  Friday,  I  ate  meat. 

Sister  Martha:  I  know. 

(Aside)  That's  why  he  looks  so  pale.     (Aloud)   I  think 

I'll  make  a  hot  tissane  for  you  to  drink, 

In  the  refrectory.     Don't  say  me  nay. 

You  will  come? 
Cyrano:  Yes,  yes. 

Sister  Martha:  Ah,  you  are  good  to-day. 

RoxANE  (who  hears  them  whispering)  :    Is  she  trying  to  convert 

you? 
Sister  Martha  :  Oh,  so  hard 

I  am  trying  not  to! 
Cyrano:  Is  my  saint  ofE  guard ? 

My  sermon's  missing.    Now,  here  is  a  wonder! 

(With  serio-comic  intensity) 

Now  it's  my  turn  to  startle  you,  by  thunder! 

Hark !     I  permit  you.  ,   .   . 

(He  seems  to  be  searching  for  a  very  teasing  jest  and  to  have 
hit  upon  it.)  — You'll  recall  it  long — 

To  .   .    .  pray  for  me  to-night  at  evensong! 
Roxane:  Oh,  oh! 

Cyrano  (laughing)  :    Sister  doubts  her  hearing  and  her  vision. 
Sister  Martha  (softly)  :    I  have  not  waited,  sir,  for  your  per- 
mission. 

(She  goes  out.) 
Cyrano  (turning  once  more  to  Roxane  bent  over  her  work)  : 

The  devil  fetch  me  if  I  hope  to  see 

That  labour  finished. 
Roxane:  Still  that  pleasantry! 

(A  passing  breeze  shakes  down  a  shower  of  leaves.) 
Cyrano:   Dead  leaves! 
Roxane:  Pale  golden,  all, 

Yellow  Venetian  gold ! 
Cyrano:  How  well  they  fall! 

On  the  short  journey  from  the  branch   to  earth, 

Dying  they  bring  one  beauty  more  to  birth. 


CYRANO  OF  BERGERAC  353 

Though  dreading  dusty  death  tliat  looms  in  sight, 
They  give  their  fall  the  loveliness  of  flight. 
RoXANii:    You,  melancholy? 

Cyrano  {recallincj  hinntlf,  quickly)  :    Roxanc!     Not  at  all. 
Roxane:   Come,  let  us  leave  the  dead  leaves  where  they  fall, 
And  talk  of  news.     What  new  thing  have  you  seen? 
Read  my  Gazette! 
Cyrano:   Hear. 
Roxane:  Ah. 

Cyrano   {who  is  groiving  paler  and  paler  and  struggling  against 
mortal  agony)  :   Saturday,  nineteen, 
After  eight  helpings  of  his  pet  conserve, 
A  fever  seized  the  King.     His  leeches  serve 
Death  notice  on  the  traitorous  attack. 
It  is  repulsed.     The  royal  pulse  runs  slack. 
On  Sunday,  at  the  great  ball  of  the  Queen, 
Seven  hundred  tapers  and  three  score  were  seen; 
Our  troops,  they  said,  met  John  the  Austrian; 
They  hung  four  sorcerers.    The  story  ran 
Lady  Athis'  lapdog  had  a  dose  and  pack. 
Roxane:  Ah,  hold  your  tongue,  my  lord  of  Bergerac! 
Cyrano:  On  Monday,  naught.    Lygdamirc's  changed  favorites. 
Roxane :  Oh ! 

Cyrano:  Tuesday,  the  Court  repaired  to  Fontainbleau 
Wednesday,  the  Monglat  told  Fiesque  nay. 
Thursday,   Mancini's  nearly  queen, — they  say. 
The  twenty-fifth,  the  Monglat  quite  relented. 
The  twenty-sixth    .    .    . 

(He  closes  his  eyes.     His  head  falls  on  his  breast.     Silence.) 
Roxane   (surprised  by  the  silence,  turns,  looks  at  him,  and  rises, 
in  alarm)  :   Oh,  Heaven!     Has  he  fainted? 
(She  runs  to  him,  crying.)     Cyrano! 
Cyrano  (opening  his  eyes,  his  voice  vague)  :  What  is  it?  Where 
.    .    .    ? 
(He  sees  RoXANE  bending  over  him  and,  hurriedly  pressing 
his   hat   more  firmly   down   on   his  forehead,  and  pulling 
himself  up  in  his  chair  with  an  effort,  speaks  more  clearly.) 


354  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

No  .   .  .  No  ...  I  have  not  swooned  .   .   . 

Naught  is  the  matter. 
Roxane:   Oh,  but  .   .   . 
Cyrano:  My  old  wound 

.  .   .  Of  Arras  .   .   .  sometimes  .  .   .  Ah  .  .   .  you  know ! 
Roxane:  Poor  friend! 

Cyrano:    But  it  is  naught.     'Twill  pass  .    .    . 

(He  smiles  with  an  effort.)  It  has  an  end. 

Roxane  (standing  near  him)  :   Each  of  us  wears  a  wound.     My 
heart  must  hold 

Always  the  old  wound,  that  is  never  old. 

(She  puts  her  hand  on  her  heart.) 

Here,  'neath  his  letter.    You  have  understood! 

That  yellowing  page,  still  stained  with  tears  and  blood. 

(Twilight  begins  to  fall.) 
Cyrano:    His  letter.    You  have  said  .   .   .  perhaps  some  day, 

You  would  let  me  read  it. 
Roxane:  Read  his  letter? 

Cyrano  :  Pray 

You  .   .   .  to-day  ...  I  would  .   .   . 
Roxane   (giving  him  the  little  bag,  from  the  cord)  :    Take  it. 
Cyrano:  You  bid  me?     I  .    .    . 

Roxane:    Open  it.     Read. 

(She  goes  back  to  her  work,  and  begins  to  sort  and  fold  the 
silks.) 
Cyrano  (reading)  :   "Roxane,  farewell.     I  am  about  to  die." 
Roxane  (pausing,  astonished)  :    Aloud? 
Cyrano:  "This  evening  as  I  think,  beloved; 

My  soul,  weighed  down  with  love  untold,  unproved. 

And  I  am  dying.     Never  more,  indeed 

My  dazzled  eyes  shall  quaff  .    .    . 
Roxane:  Ah,  how  j^ou  read 

His  letter! 
Cyrano   (reading)  :  "Quaff  your  beauty's  wine. 

Nor  kiss,  in  flight,  your  gestures,  all  divine. 

I  see  again  one  that  so  charmed  my  eye, 

You  touch  your  lovely  brow.     I  strive  to  cry.   .    .    . 


CYRANO  OF  BERGRRAC  355 

Roxane:    How  you  read  it  .    .    .  this  letter! 

Cyrano:  "So  you  may  hear, 

Fareivell!" 
Roxane:  You  read  it.  .   .  . 
Cyrano:  "O,  my  dear,  fny  dear, 

Aly  treasure." 
Roxane:  In  a  voice  .   .   . 

Cyrano:  "My  love!" 

Roxane:  Whose  chime 

Rings  in  my  Jieart  .    .    .  and  not  for  the  first  time! 

(She   co?nes    near,   very    quietly.      Unseen,   she   goes    behind 
the  armchair,  and,  leaning  silently  above  him,  she  looks 
at  the  letter.     The  shadoius  deepen.) 
Cyrano  :   "Aly  heart  will  never  leave  you,  O  my  dear! 

I  am  .   .   .  will  be  on  ivhatsoever  sphere. 

Always  your  lover,  O  my  heart's  one  light." 
Roxane  {touching  him  gently  on  the  shoulder)  : 

How  can  you  read  this  letter?     It  is  night. 

{He  trembles,  turns,  sees  her  near  him,  makes  a  startled 
gesture;  boivs  his  head.  A  long  silence.  Then,  in  the  deep 
shadows  that  have  fallen,  she  says  slowly,  clasping  her 
hands.) 

For  fourteen  years  he  has  played  out  this  part, 

Being  the  old  friend,  come  to  cheer  my  heart! 
Cyrano  :   Roxane ! 
Roxane:  'Twas  you! 

Cyrano:  No,  Roxane! 

Roxane:  Why  disclaim? 

I  should  have  known  it  when  he  spoke  my  name! 
Cyrano:    It  was  not  I! 
Roxane:  'Twas  you! 

Cyrano:  No!  No!  I  vow  .   .   .    1 

Roxane:   Generous  imposture!    I  perceive  it  now.  .   .   . 

The  letters, — jours! 
Cyrano:  No! 

Roxane:  Yours  each  dear,  mad  word! 

Yours ! 


356  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Cyrano:  No! 

RoxANE :  And  yours  the  voice  that  magic  night  I  heard ! 

Cyrano:  I  swear,  not  mine! 

Roxane:  And  your  soul  called  to  me  .    .   . 

Cyrano:   I  did  not  love  .   .   . 

Roxane:  You  loved  me! 

Cyrano:  It  was  he! 

Roxane:  You  loved  me! 

Cyrano  :  No. 

Roxane:  You  whisper!    I  have  moved  you! 

Cyrano:  O,  my  dear  love,  I  never,  never  loved  you! 

Roxane:  How  many  things  are  dead.     What  life  appears! 

Ah,  why  have  you  been  silent  fourteen  years? 

When  it  was  all  your  letter, — even  this, 

The  stain  of  tears! 
Cyrano   {holding  the  letter  out  to  her)  :    Aye, — but  the  blood 

was  his. 
Roxane:    Then  why  permit  this  silence  so  sublime 

To  end  today? 
Cyrano  :  Why  ? 

(Le  Bret  and  Ragueneau  entering,  running.) 


SCENE  VI 
The  Same;  Le  Bret  and  Ragueneau 

Le  Bret:  It  was  fully  time 

We  found  ...   I  knew  we'd  find  him  here! 
Cyrano  {smiling,  and  trying  to  sit  more  erect) :    Is  that  so  odd? 
Le  Bret:    He  has  killed  himself  by  coming! 
Roxane  :  Gracious  God ! 

The  weakness  .   .   .  the  half  swoon  .   .    .  Dear  God! 

And  yet  .   .   . 
Cyrano:   'Tis  true,  I  had  not  finished  my  Gazette. 

Died,  Saturday  the  twenty-sixth,  the  hour  not  stated. 

My  lord  of  Bergerac,  assassinated. 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  357 

(He    lifts    his    hat.     His    head    is    seen    covered  with  linen 
bandages. ) 
Roxane:   What  says  he?    Cyrano!    This  bandaged  head  1 

Oh,  what?  .  .  . 
Cyrano:    "The  only  noble  weapon,"  so  I  said   .    .    . 

"A  knightly  foeman,"   .    .    .   and  "on  glory's  field." 

— The  fullness  of  Fate's  mockery  revealed, 

Here  am  I,  killed  from  ambush  where  I  stood, 

By  a  hid  lackey,  with  a  block  of  wood. 

Well  done!    I  have  missed  in  all  things,  even  in  Death. 
Ragueneau:  Ah,  sir  .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Don't  weep,  old  friend,  with  shuddering  breath. 

(He  holds  out  his  hand  to  him.) 

What  hast  thou  now  become,  my  poet  brother? 
Ragueneau  {through  his  tears)  : 

I'm  .    .    .  candle  snuffer  .    .    .  at  .    .    .   Moliere's  ...  I 
smother 

The  .    .    .  lights  .   .    . 
Cyrano:  IMoliere's! 
Ragueneau  :  But  I  shall  quit  to-morrow. 

They  played  Scapin  last  night,  and  stooped  to  borrow 

One  of  your  scenes  entire.    I  saw ! 
Le  Bret:  I,  too. 

Ragueneau:  The  famous  "What  the  devil  would  he  do?" 
Le  Bret:  Moliere  has  filched  it. 
Cyrano:  Tut!  tut!     He  does  well. 

It  ought  to  take,  that  scene.     And  did  it  tell  ? 
Ragueneau  {sobbing):    Oh,  Sir,  they  laughed  and  laughed! 
Cyrano:  My  part  is  yet 

To  be  the  prompter  whom  all  men  forget. 

{To  Roxane)  Think  of  the  balcony,  the  dusk-sweet  air, 

And  Christian  speaking.     All  my  life  is  there; 

I,  telling  in  the  dark  my  yearning  story, 

While  others  climb  to  take  the  kiss  of  glory! 

At  the  tomb's  edge,  Fate's  justice  I  declare, 

Moliere  has  genius, — Christian  was  so  fair! 


358  PLAYS  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

{The  chapel  bells  have  rung.    And  in  the  background  along 
the  shaded  walks  the   Sisters  are   seen,  going   to   Even- 
song.) 
Cyrano:   Let  them  go  pray.    For  now  the  hour  is  near. 
RoxANE  {rising  to  call):    Sister!    Oh,  Sister! 
Cyrano:  No,  call  no  one  here. 

Ere  you  come  back,  I  should  have  gone  away.  ! 

{The  nuns  enter  the  chapel.     The  organ  is  heard.)  i 

I  longed  for  harmony  to  end  my  day. 
Roxane  :   I  love  you !    Live ! 
Cyrano:  In  fairy  tales,  long  since, 

The  princess  said  that,  and  the  ugly  prince 

Lost  all  his  plainness  in  that  sudden  sun. 

But,  see!  I  finish  as  I  was  begun. 
Roxane:  I  made  jour  grief,  I,  I! 
Cyrano:  You  made  my  bliss. 

I  lacked  all  woman's  kindness,  .    .   .  even  this  .   .   . 

My  mother  found  me  ugly.     And  I  had 

No  sister.     Lest  they  mock  an  ugly  lad, 

I  shunned  all  women.     You  became  my  friend. 

One  soft  gown  brushed  my  path  before  the  end. 
Le  Bret   {shoiving  him   the  moonlight  that  filters  through   the 

branches):    Thy  other  love! 
Cyrano  {smiling  at  the  moon):   Welcome,  fair  friend  above! 
Roxane:    I  loved  but  once,  and  twice  I  lose  my  love! 
Cyrano  {to  Le  Bret)  :    I'll  journey  to  that  moonland  opaHne, 

Unhampered, — eh,  Le  Bret? — by  a  machine. 
Roxane:    What  are  you  saying? 
Cyrano:  I  shall  have  one  prize. 

They'll  let  me  have  the  moon  for  paradise. 

In  yonder  sphere,  we  shall  hold  converse  high, 

Galileo,  and  Socrates  and  I. 
Le  Bret  {suddenly  rebellious):  No!    No!    It  is  too  stupid,  too 
unjust! 

A  hero  and  a  poet  in  the  dust! 

To  die!  and  so  to  die! 


CYRANO  OF  BERG  ERA  C  359 

Cyrano:  Lc  Bret,  who  scolds! 

Le  Bret  {bursting  into  uncontrollable  sobbing)  :   Woe's  me! 

My  friend!     Aly  friend! 
Cyrano   {standing  erect,  his  eyes  roving)  :    Cadets  of  Gascony! 

The  elementary  mass  .    .    .  the  hie  falls  thus. 
Le  Bret:    Still  science,  though  he  rave  .    .    . 
Cyrano:  Copernicus 

Said  .    .   . 
Roxane:  Oh! 

Cyrano:  "What  the  devil  vv^ould  he  do. 

And  w^hat  a  plague  was  his  business  to?" 

Physicist  and  dreamer  .    .    .   these, 
Rhymer,  musician,  fighter  an  it  please, 
And  sailor  of  aerial  seas; 
Swordsman   whose  parry  was   attack; 
Lover,  lacking  all  love's  keys; 
Here  he  lies,  this   Hercules 
Savien  Cyrano  Bergerac, — 
All  and  nothing.     Rest  in  peace. 

I  cry  your  pardon.     I  cannot  delay. 
This  moonbeam  comes  to  light  me  on  my  way. 
{He  falls  back  into  the  chair.     Roxane's  tears  recall  him 
to  reality;  he  looks  at  her,  and,  caressing  the  folds  of  her 
veil. ) 
All,  I  would  have  you  mourn  him  never  less, 
This  beautiful,  brave  Christian!     Yet  'twould  bless 
My  passing,  warm  the  coldness  of  my  tomb. 
If  in  your  mourning  both  of  us  found  room. 
If  in  your  veils,  I  had  a  little  share! 
Roxane:    I  swear  to  you  .    .    . 

Cyrano    {seized  ivith   deadly   trembling,   rises   with   sudden   vio- 
lence) :  No!  No!  Not  in  a  chair! 
{They  spring  to  his  side.) 
Let  no  man  hold  me  up.     None! 
{He  leans  against  the  tree.)  Save  this  tree. 
{Silence.) 
He  comes.    With  marble  I  am  shod.     And,  see, 


360  PLAYS  OF  ED  MONO  ROSTAND 

I  am  gloved  with  lead. 

(He  draws  himself  erect.)     So  here  I  make  my  stand. 

{He   draivs   his   sword.)      I'll   meet   him   on   my   feet,   and 
sword  in  hand ! 
Le  Bret:   Cyrano! 
Roxane:  Cyrano! 

{They  all  start  back,  affrighted.) 
Cyrano:  Your  presumption  grows! 

Featureless  Death,  thou  art  leering  at  my  nose! 

{He  lifts  his  sword.) 

How  say  you?     It  is  futile?     Futile,  yes! 

Man  does  not  battle  only  for  success! 

Nay!     It  is  nobler  if  it  be  in  vain! 

Who  are  ye?    Thousands,  rushing  in  amain! 

I  know  ye  now, — mine  ancient  enemies! 

Lies!     Prejudice! 

{He  lays  about  him  with  his  sword.)     Aha,  Hypocrisies! 

Compromise !     Cowardice ! 

Surrender?     I? 

Never!     Ah,  never!     Thou,  Stupidity! 

I  know  I  shall  be  beaten  by  your  might. 

What  matters  it !     I  fight !     I  fight !     I  fight ! 

{He  sweeps  a  great  circle  with  his  sivord  and  stops,  panting.) 

Yes,  you  take  all,  the  laurel  with  the  rose. 

Take  them !     One  thing  I  have  guarded  to  the  close. 

I'll  make  obeisance  to  my  God  this  night. 

Sweep  the  blue  threshold  of  immortal  light. 

With  that  you  may  not  touch.     Let  none  presume! 

{He  lifts  his  sword  high.) 

Stainless,  unbent,  I  have  kept  ... 

{His  sword  falls  from  his  hand;  he  shudders  and  falls  into 
the  arms  of  Le  Bret  and  Ragueneau.) 
Roxane    {bending  over  him  and  kissing  his  forehead)  : 

Ah!     What? 
Cyrano  {opens  his  eyes,  knows  her  and  smiles)  :   My  plume! 

(  Curtain  ) 


K 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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DEC^  7 1988 

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